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NEGHBORLY  POEMS 

SKETCHES  IN  PROSE  WITH  INTERLUDING  VERSES 

AFTERWHILES 

PIPES  O'  PAN  AT  ZEKESBURY  (Prose  and  Verse) 

RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

THE  FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE  NIGHT 

GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUNNING  BROOKS 

ARMAZINDY 

A  CHILD-WORLD 

HOME-FOLKS 

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OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES  (English  Edition) 
THE  GOLDEN  YEAR  (English  Edition) 
POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME 
RUBXlY/T  OF  DOC  SIFERS 
THE  BOOK  OF  JOYOUS  CHILDREN 
RILEY  CHILD-RHYMES  (Pictures  by  Vawter) 
RILEY  LOVE-LYRICS   (Pictures  by  Dyer) 
RILEY  FARM-RHYMES  (Pictures  by  Vawter) 
RILEY  SONGS  O'  CHEER  (Pictures  by  Vawter) 
AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  OF  MINE  (Pictures  by  Christy) 
OUT  TO  OLD  AUNT  MARY'S  (Pictures  by  Christy) 
A  DEFECTIVE  SANTA  GLAUS  (Forty  Pictures  by  Relyea 
and  Vawter) 


PIPES  O'  PAN 

AT  ZEKESBURY 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1888 

BY 
JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILE1T 


(3RE8S  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO- 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


P51 


n> 

UY BROTHER 

JOHN  A.  RILEY 

IflTH  UANY  MEMORIES 

OF  THE  OLD 

HOME 


155579 


CONTENTS 


AT  ZEKESBURY 13 

DOWH   fll^OUHD   THE   I^IYEI^  E>OEMS 

DOWN  ABOUND  THE  RIVER 37 

KNEELING  WITH  HERBICK 39, 

ROMANCIN' 40 

HAS  SHE  FORGOTTEN 43 

A' OLD  PLAYED-OUT  SONG 45 

THE  LOST  PATH 47 

THE  LITTLE  TINY  KICKSHAW 48 

His  MOTHER 49 

KISSING  THE  ROD 50 

How  IT  HAPPENED 51 

BABYHOOD 53 

THE  DAYS  GONE  BY 54 

MRS.  MILLER 57 

CHYMES  OP   I^AINY  DAYS 

IHE  TREE-TOAD -79 

A  WORN-OUT  PENCIL 80 

THE  STEPMOTHER 82 

THE  RAIN 8? 

THE  LEGEND  GLORIFIED 84 

WHUR  MOTHER  Is 85 

OLD  MAN'S  NURSERY  RHYME 86 

THREE  DEAD  FRIENDS 88 

IN  BOHEMIA 91 

IN  THE  DARK 93 

WET-WEATHER  TALK 94 

WHERE  SHALL  WE  LAND 96 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

THE  CHAMPION  CHECKER-PLAYER  OF  AMERIKY  .........  101 

AND  (CALAMUS 


AN  OLD  SWEETHEART  ......................  117 

MARTHY  ELLEN  .......................  119 

MOON-DROWNED  .......................  121 

LONG  AFORE  HE  KNOWED  .................  122 

DEAR  HANDS  ........................  124 

THIS  MAN  JONES  ......................  125 

To  MY  GOOD  MASTER  ....................  127 

WHEN  THE  GREEN  GITS  BACK  ...............  128 

AT  BROAD  RIPPLE    .....................  129 

WHEN  OLD  JACK  DIED  .............  »  .....  130 

Doc  SIFERS  .........................  132 

AT  NOON—  AND  MIDNIGHT  ..............  ...  135 

A  WILD  IRISHMAN    ......................  139 

RAGWEED  AND  FENNEL 

WHEN  MY  DREAMS  COME  TRUE  ..................  163 

A  DOS'T  o'  BLUES  ......................  164 

THE  BAT  ...........................  166 

THE  WAY  IT  Wuz  ......................  167 

THE  DRUM  ..........................  170 

TOM  JOHNSON'S  QUIT  ....................  172 

LULLABY  ..........................  174 

IN  THE  SOUTH  ........................  175 

THE  OLD  HOME  BY  THE  MILL  ...............  177 

A  LEAVE-TAKING  ......................  179 

WAIT  FOR  THE  MORNING  ..................  180 

WHEN  JUNE  is  HERE  ....................  181 

THE  GILDED  ROLL  ......................  185 


Pipe$  Ot  Pat?  at  Zekesburg 


HE  PIPES  OF  PAN!     Not  idler  now  are  they 
Than  when  their  cunning  fashioner  first  blew 
The  pith  of  music  from  them:     Yet  for  you 
And  me  their  notes  are  blown  in  many  a  way 
Lost  in  our  murmurings  for  that  old  day 
That  fared  so  well  without  us. — Waken  to 
The  pipings  here  at  hand : — The  clear  halloo 
Of  truant-voices,  and  the  roundelay 
The  waters  warble  in  the  solitude 
Of  blooming  thickets,  where  the  robin's  breast 
Sends  up  such  ecstacy  o'er  dale  and  dell, 
Each  tree  top  answers,  till  in  all  the  wood 
There  lingers  not  one  squirrel  in  his  nest 
Whetting  his  hunger  on  an  empty  shell. 


AT  ZEKESBURY. 

little  town,  as  I  recall  it,  was  of  just 
enough  dignity  and  dearth  of  the  same  to 
be  an  ordinary  county  seat  in  Indiana — "  The 
Grand  Old  Hoosier  State,"  as  it  was  used  to 
being  howlingly  referred  to  by  the  forensic 
stump  orator  from  the  old  stand  in  the  court 
house  yard — a  political  campaign  being  the 
wildest  delight  that  Zekesbury  might  ever 
hope  to  call  its  own. 

Through  years  the  fitful  happenings  of  the 
town  and  its  vicinity  went  on  the  same — the 
same !  Annually  about  one  circus  ventured 
in,  and  vanished,  and  was  gone,  even  as  a 
passing  trumpet-blast ;  the  usual  rainy-season 
swelled  the  "  Crick,'7  the  driftage  choking  at 
"  the  covered  bridge,"  and  backing  water  till 
the  old  road  looked  amphibious ;  and  crowds 
of  curious  townsfolk  straggled  down  to  look 
upon  the  watery  wonder,  and  lean  awe-struck 
above  it,  and  spit  in  it,  and  turn  mutely  home 
again. 

The  usual  formula  of  incidents  peculiar  to  an 
uneventful  town  and  its  vicinity  :  The  coun 
tryman  from  "Jessup's  Crossing,"  with  the 


14  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

cornstalk  coffin-measure,  loped  into  town,  his 
steaming  little  gray-and-red-flecked  "road 
ster  "  gurgitating,  as  it  were,  with  that  myste 
rious  utterance  that  ever  has  commanded  and 
ever  must  evoke  the  wonder  and  bewilderment 
of  every  boy.  The  small-pox  rumor  became 
prevalent  betimes,  and  the  subtle  aroma  of  the 
assafcetida-bag  permeated  the  graded  schools 
^  from  turret  to  foundation-stone ;"  the  still 
recurring  expose"  of  the  poor-house  manage 
ment  ;  the  farm-hand,  with  the  scythe  across 
his  shoulder,  struck  dead  by  lightning ;  the 
long-drawn  quarrel  between  the  rival  editors 
culminating  in  one  of  them  assaulting  the  other 
with  a  "  sidestick,"  and  the  other  kicking  the 
one  down  stairs  and  thenceward  ad  libitum ; 
the  tramp,  suppositiously  stealing  a  ride,  found 
dead  on  the  railroad  ;  the  grand  jury  returning 
a  sensational  indictment  against  a  bar-tender 
non  est;  the  Temperance  outbreak  ;  the  "  Re 
vival  ; "  the  Church  Festival ;  and  the  "  Free 
Lectures  on  Phrenology,  and  Marvels  of  Mes 
merism,"  at  the  town  hall.  It  was  during  the 
time  of  the  last-mentioned  sensation,  and  di 
rectly  through  this  scientific  investigation,  that 
I  came  upon  two  of  the  town's  most  remarka 
ble  characters.  And  however  meager  my 
outline  of  them  may  prove,  my  material  for 
the  sketch  is  most  accurate  in  every  detail, 


AT   ZEKESBURY.  15 

and  no  deviation  from  the  cold  facts  of  the 
case  shall  influence  any  line  of  my  report. 

For  some  years  prior  to  this  odd  experience 
I  had  been  connected  with  a  daily  paper  at 
the  state  capitol ;  and  latterly  a  prolonged 
session  of  the  legislature,  where  I  specially 
reported,  having  told  threateningly  upon  my 
health,  I  took  both  the  advantage  of  a  brief 
vacation,  and  the  invitation  of  a  young  bach 
elor  Senator,  to  get  out  of  the  city  for  awhile, 
and  bask  my  respiratory  organs  in  the  reviv 
ifying  rural  air  of  Zekesbury — the  home  of 
my  new  friend. 

''It'll  pay  you  to  get  out  here,"  he  said, 
cordially,  meeting  me  at  the  little  station, 
"  and  I  'm  glad  you  've  come,  for  you  '11  find 
no  end  of  odd  characters  to  amuse  you."  And 
under  the  very  pleasant  sponsorship  of  my  sen 
atorial  friend,  I  was  placed  at  once  on  genial 
terms  with  half  the  citizens  of  the  little  town — 
from  the  shirt-sleeved  nabob  of  the  county 
office  to  the  droll  wag  of  the  favorite  loafing- 
place — the  rules  and  by-laws  of  which  resort, 
by  the  way,  being  rudely  charcoaled  on  the 
wall  above  the  cutter's  bench,  and  somewhat 
artistically  culminating  in  an  original  dialectic 
legend  which  ran  thus : 

F'rinstance,  now  whar  some  folks  gits 
To  relyin'  on  their  wits, 


1 6  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

Ten  to  one  they  git  too  smart, 

And  spile  it  all  right  at  the  start!— 

Feller  wants  to  jest  go  slow 

And  do  his  thinkiri1  first,  you  know:— » 

Ef  I  can't  think  tip  somepin''  good, 

I  set  still  and  chaw  my  cood! 

And  it  was  at  this  inviting  rendezvous,  two 
or  three  evenings  following  my  arrival,  that 
the  general  crowd,  acting  upon  the  random 
proposition  of  one  of  the  boys,  rose  as  a  man 
and  wended  its  hilarious  way  to  the  town 
hall. 

"Phrenology,"  said  the  little,  old,  bald- 
headed  lecturer  and  mesmerist,  thumbing  the 
egg-shaped  head  of  a  young  man  I  remem 
bered  to  have  met  that  afternoon  in  some  law 
office  ;  "Phrenology, "repeated  the  professor — 
"or  rather  the  term  phrenology — is  derived 
from  two  Greek  words  signifying  mind  and  dis 
course;  hence  we  find  embodied  in  phrenology- 
proper,  the  science  of  intellectual  measure 
ment,  together  with  the  capacity  of  intelligent 
communication  of  the  varying  mental  forces 
and  their  flexibilities,  etc.,  &c.  The  study, 
then,  of  phrenology  is,  to  wholly  simplify  it — is, 
I  say,  the  general  contemplation  of  the  work 
ings  of  the  mind  as  made  manifest  through 
the  certain  corresponding  depressions  and 
protuberances  of  the  human  skull,  when,  of 
course,  in  a  healthy  state  of  action  and  devel- 


AT  ZEKESBURY.  17 

opment,  as  we  here  find  the  conditions  exem 
plified  in  the  subject  before  us." 

Here  the  "  subject"  vaguely  smiled. 

"You  recognize  that  mug,  don't  you?" 
whispered  my  friend.  "  It 's  that  coruscating 
young  ass,  you  know,  Hedrick — -in  Cummings' 
office — trying  to  study  law  and  literature  at  the 
same  time,  and  tampering  with  {  The  Monster 
that  Annually,'  don't  you  know? — where  we 
found  the  two  young  students  scuffling  round 
the  office,  and  smelling  of  peppermint? — Hed 
rick,  you  know,  and  Sweeney.  Sweeney,  the 
slim  chap,  with  the  pallid  face,  and  frog-eyes, 
and  clammy  hands  !  You  remember  I  told  you 
*  there  was  a  pair  of  'em? '  Well,  they  're  up 
to  something  here  to-night.  Hedrick,  there  on 
the  stage  in  front ;  and  Sweeney — don't  you 
see? — with  the  gang  on  the  rear  seats." 

"Phrenology — again,"  continued  the  lect 
urer,  "is,  we  may  say,  a  species  of  mental 
geography,  as  it  were  ;  which — by  a  study  of 
the  skull — leads  also  to  a  study  of  the  brain 
within,  even  as  geology  naturally  follows  the 
initial  contemplation  of  the  earth's  surface. 
The  brain,  thurfur,  or  intellectual  retort,  as  we 
may  say,  natively  exerts  a  molding  influence 
on  the  skull  contour ;  thurfur  is  the  expert  in 
phrenology  most  readily  enabled  to  accurately 
locate  the  multitudinous  intellectual  forces,  and 
2 


l8  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

most  exactingly  estimate,  as  well,  the  sequent 
character  of  each  subject  submitted  to  his 
scrutiny.  As,  in  the  example  before  us — a 
young  man,  doubtless  well  known  in  your 
midst,  though,  I  may  say,  an  entire  stranger 
to  myself — I  venture  to  disclose  some  charac 
teristic  trends  and  tendencies,  as  indicated 
by  this  phrenological  depression  and  develop 
ment  of  the  skull-proper,  as  later  we  will 
show,  through  the  mesmeric  condition,  the 
accuracy  of  our  mental  diagnosis." 

Throughout  the  latter  part  of  this  speech  my 
friend  nudged  me  spasmodically,  whispering 
something  which  was  jostled  out  of  intelligent 
utterance  by  some  inward  spasm  of  laughter. 

"  In  this  head,"  said  the  Professor,  strad 
dling  his  malleable  fingers  across  the  young 
man's  bumpy  brow — "  In  this  head  we  find 
Ideality  large  —  abnormally  large,  in  fact; 
thurby  indicating — taken  in  conjunction  with 
a  like  development  of  the  perceptive  quali 
ties — language  following,  as  well,  in  the  prom 
inent  eye — thurby  indicating,  1  say,  our  subject 
as  especially  endowed  with  a  love  for  the 
beautiful — the  sublime — the  elevating — the  re 
fined  and  delicate— the  lofty  and  superb— in 
nature,  and  in  all  the  sublimated  attributes  of 
the  human  heart  and  beatific  soul.  In  fact, 
we  find  this  young  man  possessed  of  such 


AT   ZEKESBURY.  If) 

natural  gifts  as  would  befit  him  for  the  exalted 
career  of  the  sculptor,  the  actor,  the  artist,  or 
the  poet — any  ideal  calling ;  in  fact,  an}^  call 
ing  but  a  practical,  matter-of-fact  vocation ; 
though  in  poetry  he  would  seem  to  best  suc 
ceed." 

"  Well,  "said  my  friend,  seriously,  "he's 
feeling  for  the  boy !  "  Then  laughingly : 
"  Hedrick  has  written  some  rhymes  for  the 
county  papers,  and  Sweeney  once  introduced 
him,  at  an  Old  Settlers'  Meeting,  as  'The 
Best  Poet  in  Center  Township,'  and  never 
cracked  a  smile !  Always  after  each  other 
that  way,  but  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
Sweeney's  strong  suit  is  elocution.  He  has  a 
native  ability  that  way  by  no  means  ordinary, 
but  even  that  gift  he  abuses  and  distorts 
simply  to  produce  grotesque,  and  oftentimes 
ridiculous  effects.  For  instance,  nothing  more 
delights  him  than  to  '  lothfully '  consent  to 
answer  a  request,  at  The  Mite  Society,  some 
evening,  for  '  an  appropriate  selection,'  and 
then,  with  an  elaborate  introduction  of  the 
same,  and  an  exalted  tribute  to  the  refined 
genius  of  the  author,  proceed  with  a  most 
gruesome  rendition  of  '  Alonzo  The  Brave  and 
The  Fair  Imogene/  in  a  way  to  coagulate  the 
blood  and  curl  the  hair  of  his  fair  listeners 
with  abject  terror.  Pale  as  a  corpse,  you 


2O  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

know,  and  with  that  cadaverous  face,  lit  with 
those  malignant-looking  eyes,  his  slender  fig 
ure,  and  his  long,  thin  legs  and  arms  and 
hands,  and  his  whole  diabolical  talent  and 
adroitness  brought  into  play — why,  I  want  to 
say  to  you,  it 's  enough  to  scare  'em  to  death  ! 
Never  a  smile  from  him,  though,  till  he  and 
Hedrick  are  safe  out  into  the  night  again — 
then,  of  course,  they  hug  each  other  and  howl 
over  it  like  Modocs  !  But  pardon  ;  I  'm  inter 
rupting  the  lecture.  Listen." 

"A  lack  of  continuity,  however,"  continued 
the  Professor,  "and  an  undue  love  of  appro 
bation,  would,  measurably,  at  least,  tend  to 
retard  the  young  man's  progress  toward  the 
consummation  of  any  loftier  ambition,  I  fear ; 
yet  as  we  have  intimated,  if  the  subject  were 
appropriately  educated  to  the  need's  demand, 
he  could  doubtless  produce  a  high  order  of 
both  prose  and  poetry — especially  the  latter — 
though  he  could  very  illy  bear  being  laughed 
at  for  his  pains." 

"  He  's  dead  wrong  there,"  said  my  friend  ; 
"  Hedrick  enjoys  being  laughed  at ;  he  's  used 
to  it— gets  fat  on  it ! " 

"  Is  fond  of  his  friends,"  continued  the  Pro 
fessor  "  and  the  heartier  they  are  the  better  ; 
might  even  be  convivially  inclined — if  so 
tempted — but  prudent — in  a  degree,"  loiter- 


AT  ZEKESBURY.  21 

ingly  concluded  the  speaker,  as  though  un 
able  to  find  the  exact  bump  with  which  to 
bolster  up  the  last  named  attribute. 

The  subject  blushed  vividly — my  friend's 
right  eyelid  dropped,  and  there  was  a  notice 
able,  though  elusive  sensation  throughout  the 
audience. 

"But!"  said  the  Professor,  explosively, 
"  selecting  a  directly  opposite  subject,  in  con 
junction  with  the  study  of  the  one  before  us 
[turning  to  the  group  at  the  rear  of  the  stage 
and  beckoning],  we  may  find  a  newer  interest 
in  the  practical  comparison  of  these  subjects 
side  by  side."  And  the  Professor  pushed  a 
very  pale  young  man  into  position. 

"  Sweeney  !  "  whispered  my  friend,  delight 
edly  ;  "  now  look  out !  " 

"  In  this  subject,"  said  the  Professor,  "  we 
find  the  practical  business  head.  Square — 
though  small — a  trifle  light  at  the  base,  in  fact ; 
but  well  balanced  at  the  important  points  at 
least ;  thoughtful  eyes — wide-awake — crafty — 
quick — restless — a  policy  eye,  though  not  de 
noting  language — unless,  perhaps,  mere  busi 
ness  forms  and  direct  statements." 

"Fooled  again!"  whispered  my  friend; 
"  and  I  'm  afraid  the  old  man  will  fail  to  nest 
out  the  fact  also  that  Sweeney  is  the  cold- 
bloodedest  guyer  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and 


22  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

with  more  diabolical  resources  than  a  prose 
cuting  attorney  ;  the  Professor  ought  to  know 
this,  too,  by  this  time — for  these  same  two 
chaps  have  been  visiting  the  old  man  in  his 
room  at  the  hotel ; — that 's  what  I  was  trying 
to  tell  you  awhile  ago.  The  old  sharp  thinks 
he  's  '  playing  '  the  boys,  is  my  idea ;  but  it 's 
the  other  way,  or  I  lose  my  guess." 

"  Now,  under  the  mesmeric  influence — if 
the  two  subjects  will  consent  to  its  administra 
tion,"  said  the  Professor,  after  some  further 
tedious  preamble,  "  we  may  at  once  determine 
the  fact  of  my  assertions,  as  will  be  proved  by 
their  action  while  in  this  peculiar  state."  Here 
some  apparent  remonstrance  was  met  with 
from  both  subjects,  though  amicably  overcome 
by  the  Professor  first  manipulating  the  stolid 
brow  and  pallid  front  of  the  imperturbable 
Sweeney — after  which  the  same  mysterious 
ordeal  was  lothfully  submitted  to  by  Hedrick — 
though  a  noticeably  longer  time  was  consumed 
in  securing  his  final  loss  of  self-control.  At 
last,  however,  this  curious  phenomenon  was 
presented,  and  there  before  us  stood  the  two 
swaying  figures,  the  heads  dropped  back,  the 
lifted  hands,  with  thumb  and  finger-tips  pressed 
lightly  together,  the  eyelids  languid  and  half 
closed,  and  the  features,  in  appearance,  wan 
and  humid. 


AT   ZEKESBURY.  23 

"Now,  sir!"  said  the  Professor,  leading 
the  limp  Sweeney  forward,  and  addressing 
him  in  a  quick,  sharp  tone  of  voice. — "  Now, 
sir,  you  are  a  great  contractor — own  large 
factories,  and  with  untold  business  interests. 
Just  look  out  there !  [pointing  out  across  the 
expectant  audience]  look  there,  and  see  the 
countless  minions  toiling  servilely  at  your 
dread  mandates.  And  yet — ha  !  ha  !  See  ! 
see  T — They  recognize  the  avaricious  greed 
that  would  thus  grind  them  in  the  very  dust ; 
they  see,  alas !  they  see  themselves  half- 
clothed — half- fed,  that  you  may  glut  your  cof 
fers.  Half-starved,  the}'  listen  to  the  wail  of 
wife  and  babe,  and,  with  eyes  upraised  in 
prayer,  they  see  you  rolling  by  in  gilded  coach, 
and  swathed  in  silk  attire.  But— ha  !  again  ! 
Look — look  !  they  are  rising  in  revolt  against 
you  !  Speak  to  them  before  too  late  !  Appeal 
to  them — quell  them  with  the  promise  of  the 
just  advance  of  wages  they  demand!" 

The  limp  figure  of  Sweeney  took  on  some 
thing  of  a  stately  and  majestic  air.  With  a 
graceful  and  commanding  gesture  of  the  hand, 
he  advanced  a  step  or  two  ;  then,  after  a  pause 
of  some  seconds  duration,  in  which  the  lifted 
face  grew  paler,  as  it  seemed,  and  the  eyes  a 
denser  black,  he  said : 


24  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

u  But  yesterday 
I  looked  away 

O'er  happy  lands,  where  sunshine  lay 
In  golden  blots, 
Inlaid  with  spots 
Of  shade  and  wild  forget-me-nots." 

The  voice  was  low,  but  clear,  and  ever 
musical.  The  Professor  started  at  the  strange 
utterance,  looked  extremely  confused,  and,  as 
the  boisterous  crowd  cried  "  Hear,  hear ! "  he 
motioned  the  subject  to  continue,  with  some 
gasping  comment  interjected,  which,  if  aud 
ible,  would  have  run  thus  :  "  My  God  !  It 's 
an  inspirational  poem  !  " 

"  My  head  was  fair 
With  flaxen  hair " 

resumed  the  subject. 

"  Yoop-ee  ! "  yelled  an  irreverent  auditor. 

"Silence!  silence!"  commanded  the  ex 
cited  Professor  in  a  hoarse  whisper;  then, 
turning  enthusiastically  to  the  subject — "Go 
on,  young  man !  Go  on ! — <  Thy  head  -was 
fair  -with  flaxen  hair '  " 

"  My  head  was  fair 
With  flaxen  hair, 

And  fragrant  breezes,  faint  and  rare, 
And  warm  with  drouth 
From  out  the  south, 
Blew  all  my  curls  across  my  mouth." 


AT  ZEKESBURY.  25 

The  speaker's  voice,  exquisitely  modulated, 
yet  resonant  as  the  twang  of  a  harp,  now 
seemed  of  itself  to  draw  and  hold  each  list 
ener  ;  while  a  certain  extravagance  of  gestic 
ulation — a  fantastic  movement  of  both  form 
and  feature — seemed  very  near  akin  to  fas 
cination.  And  so  flowed  on  the  curious 
utterance : 

"And,  cool  and  sweet, 
My  naked  feet 

Found  dewy  pathways  through  the  wheat; 
And  out  again 
Where,  down  the  lane, 
The  dust  was  dimpled  with  the  rain." 

In  the  pause  following  there  was  a  breath- 
lessness  almost  painful.  The  poem  went  on : 

"  But  yesterday 
I  heard  the  lay 

Of  summer  birds,  when  I,  as  they 
With  breast  and  wing, 
All  quivering 
With  life  and  love,  could  only  sing. 

"  My  head  was  leant, 
Where,  with  it,  blent 
A  maiden's,  o  'er  her  instrument; 
While  all  the  night, 
From  vale  to  height, 
Was  filled  with  echoes  of  delight 

"  And  all  our  dreams 
Were  lit  with  gleams 


26  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

Of  that  lost  land  of  reedy  streams, 

Along  whose  brim 

Forever  swim 

Pan's  lilies,  laughing  up  at  him." 

And  still  the  inspired  singer  held  rapt  sway. 

"It  is  wonderful!"  I  whispered,  under 
breath. 

"  Of  course  it  is  !  "  answered  my  friend. 
"  But  listen  ;  there  is  more  :  " 

"But  yesterday!     .... 
O  blooms  of  May, 
And  summer  roses — Where-away? 
O  stars  above; 
And  lips  of  love, 
And  all  the  honeyed  sweets  thereof! 

"O  lad  and  lass, 
And  orchard-pass, 
And  briared  lane,  and  daisied  grass! 
O  gleam  and  gloom, 
And  woodland  bloom, 
And  breezy  breaths  of  all  perfume!— 

"  No  more  for  me 
Or  mine  shall  be 

Thy  raptures  — save  in  memory, — 
No  more — no  more — 
Till  through  the  Door 
Of  Glory  gleam  the  days  of  yore." 

This  was  the  evident  conclusion  of  the  re 
markable  utterance,  and  the  Professor  wa« 
impetuously  fluttering  his  hands  about  tho 


AT   ZEKESBURY.  27 

subject's  upward-staring  eyes,  stroking  his 
temples,  and  snapping  his  fingers  in  his  face. 

"Well,"  said  Sweeney,  as  he  stood  sud 
denly  awakened,  and  grinning  in  an  idiotic 
way,  "  how  did  the  old  thing  work?  "  And  it 
was  in  the  consequent  hilarity  and  loud  and 
long  applause,  perhaps,  that  the  Professor  was 
relieved  from  the  explanation  of  this  rather 
astounding  phenomenon  of  the  idealistic  work 
ings  of  a  purely  practical  brain — or,  as  my 
impious  friend  scoffed  the  incongruity  later, 
in  a  particularly  withering  allusion,  as  the 
"  blank -blanked  fallacy,  don't  you  know,  of 
staying  the  hunger  of  a  howling  mob  by  feed 
ing  'em  on  Spring  poetry  !  " 

The  tumult  of  the  audience  did  not  cease 
even  with  the  retirement  of  Sweeney,  and 
cries  of  "  Hedrick  !  Hedrick  !  "  only  subsided 
with  the  Professor's  high-keyed  announce 
ment  that  the  subject  was  even  then  endeav 
oring  to  make  himself  heard,  but  could  not 
until  utter  quiet  was  restored,  adding  the  fur 
ther  appeal  that  the  young  man  had  already 
been  a  long  time  under  the  mesmeric  spell,  and 
ought  not  be  so  detained  for  an  unnecessary 
period.  "  See,"  he  concluded,  with  an  as 
suring  wave  of  the  hand  toward  the  subject, 
"see;  he  is  about  to  address  you.  Now, 
quiet ! — utter  quiet,  if  you  please  1 " 


28  AT  ZEKESBURY. 

"  Great  heavens!"  exclaimed  my  friend, 
stiflingly;  "Just  look  at  the  boy!  Get  onto 
that  position  for  a  poet !  Even  Sweeney  has 
fled  from  the  sight  of  him  ! " 

And  truly,  too,  it  was  a  grotesque  pose  the 
young  man  had  assumed ;  not  wholly  ridicu 
lous  either,  since  the  dwarfed  position  he  had 
settled  into  seemed  more  a  genuine  phvsical 
condition  than  an  affected  one.  The  head, 
back-tilted,  and  sunk  between  the  shoulders, 
looked  abnormally  large,  while  the  features 
of  the  face  appeared  peculiarly  child-like — 
especially  the  eyes — wakeful  and  wide  apart, 
and  very  bright,  yet  very  mild  and  very  art 
less  ;  and  the  drawn  and  cramped  outline  of 
the  legs  and  feet,  and  of  the  arms  and  hands, 
even  to  the  shrunken,  slender-looking  fingers, 
all  combined  to  most  strikingly  convey  to  the 
pained  senses  the  fragile  frame  and  pixey 
figure  of  some  pitiably  afflicted  child,  uncon 
scious  altogether  of  the  pathos  of  its  own  de 
formity. 

vNow,  mark  the  kuss,  Horatio!"  gasped 
my  friend. 

At  first  the  speaker's  voice  came  very  low, 
and  somewhat  piping,  too,  and  broken — an 
eerie  sort  of  voice  it  was,  of  brittle  and  erratic 
timbre  and  undulant  inflection.  Yet  it  was 
beautiful.  It  had  the  ring  of  childhood  in  it, 


AT   ZEKESBURY.  2() 

though  the  ring  was  not  pure  golden,  and  at 
times  fell  echoless.  The  spirit  of  its  utter 
ance  was  always  clear  and  pure  and  crisp 
and  cheery  as  the  twitter  of  a  bird,  and  yet 
forever  ran  an  undercadence  through  it  like  a 
low-pleading  prayer.  Half  garrulously,  and 
like  a  shallow  brook  might  brawl  across  a 
shelvy  bottom,  the  rhythmic  little  changeling 
thus  began: 

"  I  'm  thist  a  little  crippled  boy,  an'  never  goin'  to  grow 
An'  git  a  great  big  man  at  all! — 'cause  Aunty  told  me  so. 
When  I  was  thist  a  baby  onc't  I  failed  out  of  the  bed 
An'  got  'The  Curv'ture  of  the  Spine'— 'at 's  what  the 

Doctor  said. 

I  never  had  no  Mother  nen — fer  my  Pa  runned  away 
An'  dass  n't  come  back  here  no  more — 'cause  he  was 

drunk  one  day 
An'  stobbed  a  man  in  thish-ere  town,  an'  could  n't  pay 

his  fine! 
An'  nen  my  Ma  she  died— an'  I  got '  Curv'ture  of  the 

Spine!'" 

A  few  titterings  from  the  younger  people 
in  the  audience  marked  the  opening  stanza, 
while  a  certain  restlessness,  and  a  changing 
to  more  attentive  positions  seemed  the  general 
tendency.  The  old  Professor,  in  the  mean 
time,  had  sunk  into  one  of  the  empty  chairs. 
The  speaker  went  on  with  more  gaiety : 

**I'm  nine  years  old!   An'  you  can't  guess  how  much  \ 
weigh,  I  bet! — 


3O  AT   ZEKESBURY. 

Last    birthday   I   weighed   thirty-three! — An'  I   weigh 

thiity  yet! 

I  'm  a  wful  little  f er  my  size — I  'm  purt'  nigh  littler  'an 
Some  babies  is! — an'  neighbors  all  calls  me  'The  Little 

Man!' 
An'  Doc  one  time  he  laughed  an' said:    *  I  'spect,  first 

thing  you  know, 
You  '11   have  a   little  spike-tail   coat  an'  travel   with  a 

show!' 
An'  nen  I  laughed — till  I  looked  round  an'  Aunty  was 

a-cryin' — 
Sometimes  she  acts  like  that,  'cause  I  got '  Curv'ture  of 

the  Spine! "' 

Just  in  front  of  me  a  great  broad-shouldered 
countryman,  with  a  rainy  smell  in  his  cum 
brous  overcoat,  cleared  his  throat  vehemently, 
looked  startled  at  the  sound,  and  again  set 
tled  forward,  his  weedy  chin  resting  on  the 
knuckles  of  his  hands  as  they  tightly  clutched 
the  seat  before  him.  And  it  was  like  being 
taken  into  a  childish  confidence  as  the  quaint 
speech  continued : 

"I  set — while  Aunty's  washin' — on  my  little  long-leg 

stool, 
An'  watch   the   little   boys   an'  girls  'a-skippin'  by   to 

school; 

An'  I  peck  on  the  winder,  an'  holler  out  an'  say: 
'Who  wants  to  fight  The   Little   Man  'at  dares  you  all 

to-dav?' 
An'  nen  the  boys  climbs  on  the  fence,  an'  little  girls 

peeks  through, 
An'  they  all  says:     'Cause  you're  so  big,  you  think 

we  're  'feared  o'  you ! ' 


AT   ZEKESBURY.  3! 

An*  nen  they  yell,  an'  shake  their  fist  at  me,  like  I  shake 

mine — 
They  're  thist  in  fun,  you  know,  'cause  I  got 8  Curv'ture 

of  the  Spine!'" 

"  Well,"  whispered  my  friend,  with  rather 
odd  irrelevance,  I  thought,  "  of  course  you 
see  through  the  scheme  of  the  fellows  by  this 
time,  do  n't  you?" 

"  I  see  nothing,"  said  I,  most  earnestly, 
"but  a  poor  little  wisp  of  a  child  that  makes 
me  love  him  so  I  dare  not  think  of  his  dying 
soon,  as  he  surely  must!  There;  listen!" 
And  the  plaintive  gaiety  of  the  homely  poem 
ran  on : 

"  At  evening,  when  the  ironin  's  done,  an'  Aunty 's  fixed 

the  fire, 
An'  filled  an'  lit  the  lamp,  an'  trimmed  the  wick  an' 

turned  it  higher, 
An'  fetched  the  wood  all  in  fer  night,  an'  locked  the 

kitchen  door, 
An'  stuffed  the  ole  crack  where  the  wind  blows  in  up 

through  the  floor — 
She  sets  the  kittle  on  the  coals,  an'  biles  an'  makes  the 

tea, 

An*  fries  the  liver  an'  the  mush,  an'  cooks  a  egg  fer  me; 
An'  sometimes — when  I  cough  so  hard — her  elderberry 

wine 
Don't  go  so  bad  fer  little  boys  with  '  Curv'ture  of  the 

Spine!'" 

"Look!"  whispered  my  friend,  touching 
xne  with  his  elbow.  ' '  Look  at  the  Professor ! " 


32  AT  ZEKESBURY. 

"Look  at  everybody!"  said  I.  And  the 
artless  little  voice  went  on  again  half  quaver- 
ingly : 

"But  Aunty's  all  so  childish -like  on  my  account,  you  see, 
I  'm  'most  afeared  she  '11  be  took  down— an'  'at 's  what 

bothers  me! — 

'Cause  ef  my  good  ole  Aunty  ever  would  git  sick  an'  die, 
I  don't  know  what  she  'd  do  in  Heaven — till  /  come,  by 

an'  by: — 
Fer  she's  so  ust  to  all  my  ways,  an'  ever'thing,  you 

know, 

An'  no  one  there  like  me,  to  nurse,  an'  worry  over  so!— 
'Cause  all  the  little  childerns  there 's  so  straight  an'  strong 

an'  fine, 
They 's  nary  angel  'bout  the  place  with  '  Curv'ture  of 

the  Spine  I'" 

The  old  Professor's  face  was  in  his  hand 
kerchief;  so  was  my  friend's  in  his ;  and  so 
was  mine  in  mine,  as  even  now  my  pen  drops 
and  I  reach  for  it  again. 

I  half  regret  joining  the  mad  party  that  had 
gathered  an  hour  later  in  the  old  law-office 
where  these  two  graceless  characters  held 
almost  nightly  revel,  the  instigators  and  con 
niving  hosts  of  a  reputed  banquet  whose 
menu's  range  confined  itself  to  herrings,  or 
"blind  robins,"  dried  beef,  and  cheese,  with 
crackers,  gingerbread,  and  sometimes  pie; 
the  whole  washed  down  with  anything  but 


AT  ZEKESBURY.  #3 

«_-Wines  that  heaven  knows  when 
Had  sucked  the  fire  of  some  forgotten  sun, 
And  kept  it  through  a  hundred  years  of  gloom 
Still  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby." 

But  the  affair  was  memorable.  The  old 
Professor  was  himself  lured  into  it,  and  loud 
est  in  his  praise  of  Hedrick's  realistic  art ;  and 
I  yet  recall  him  at  the  orgie's  height,  excit 
edly  repulsing  the  continued  slurs  and  insinu 
ations  of  the  clammy-handed  Sweeney,  who, 
still  contending  against  the  old  man's  fulsome 
praise  of  his  more  fortunate  rival,  at  last  openly 
declared  that  Hedrick  was  not  a  poet,  not  a 
genius,  and  in  no  way  worthy  to  be  classed 
in  the  same  breath  with  himself- — "  the  gifted 
but  unfortunate  Sweeney,  sir — the  unacknowl 
edged  author,  sir — 'y  gad,  sir! — of  the  two 
poems  that  held  you  spell-bound  to-night  1 " 
3 


tJ?c  River  poen?s 


DOWN   AROUND   THE   RIVER. 

IVo  O  N  - T I  M  E  and  June-time,  down  around  the 
(^S  ^     river! 

Have  to  furse  with  'Lizey  Ann — but  lawzy!  I  fergive  her! 
Drives  me  off  the  place,  and  says  'at  all  'at  she 's  a-wishin', 
Land  o'  gracious!  time  '11  come  I  '11  git  enough  o'  fishin'! 
Little  Dave,  a-choppin'  wood,  never  'pears  to  notice; 
Don't  know  where  she 's  hid  his  hat,  er  keerin'  where  his 

coat  is, — 

Specalatin',  more  'n  like,  he  haint  a-goin'  to  mind  me, 
And  guessin'  where,  say  twelve  o'clock,  a  feller  'd  likely 

find  me. 

Noon-time  and  June-time,  down  around  the  river! 
Clean  out  o'  sight  o'  home,  and  skulkin'  under  kivver 
Of  the  sycamores,  jack-oaks,  and  swamp-ash  and  ellum — 
Idies  all  so  jumbled  up,  you  kin  hardly  tell  'em! — 
Tired,  you  know,  but  levin"1  it,  and  smilin'  jest  to  think  'at 
Any  sweeter  tiredness  you  'd  fairly  want  to  drink  it. 
Tired  o'  fishin' — tired  o'  fun — line  out  slack  and  slacker — 
All  you  want  in  all  the  world  's  a  little  more  tobacker! 

Hungry,  but  a-Jiidin1  it,  er  jes'  a-not  a-keerin': — 
Kingfisher  gittin'  up  and  skootin'  out  o'  hearin'; 
Snipes  on  the  t'other  side,  where  the  County  Ditch  is, 
Wadin'  up  and  down  the  aidge  like  they  'd  rolled  their 

britches! 

Old  turkle  on  the  root  kindo-sorto  drappin' 
Intoo  th'  worter  like  he  do  n't  know  how  it  happen! 
Worter,  shade  and  all  so  mixed,  do  n't  know  which  you  'd 

orter 

Say,  th'  tvorter  in  the  shadder — shadder  in  the  worter! 
(37) 


38  DOWN   AROUND   THE    RIVER. 

Somebody  hollerin' — 'way  around  the  bend  in 
Upper  Fork — where  yer  eye  kin  jes'  ketch  the  endin* 
Of  the  shiney  wedge  o'  wake  some  muss-rat's  a-makin* 
With  that  pesky  nose  o'  his!     Then  a  sniff  o'  bacon, 
Corn-bread  and  'dock -greens — and  little  Dave  a-shinnin' 
'Crost  the  rocks  and  mussel-shells,  a-limpin'  and  a-grinnin', 
With  yer  dinner  fer  ye,  and  a  blessin'  from  the  giver. 
Noon-time  and  June-time  down  around  the  riverl 


KNEELING   WITH   HERRICK. 

EAR  LORD,  to  Thee  my  knee  is  bent- 
Give  me  content — 
Full-pleasured  with  what  comes  to  me, 

What  e'er  it  be: 
An  humble  roof  -  a  frugal  board, 

And  simple  hoard; 
The  wintry  fagot  piled  beside 

The  chimney  wide, 
While  the  enwreathing  flames  up-sprout 

And  twine  about 
The  brazen  dogs  that  guard  my  hearth 

And  household  worth: 
Tinge  with  the  ember's  ruddy  glow 

The  rafters  low; 
And  let  the  sparks  snap  with  delight, 

As  fingers  might 
That  mark  deft  measures  of  some  tune 

The  children  croon: 
Then,  with  good  friends,  the  rarest  few 

Thou  boldest  true, 
Ranged  round  about  the  blaze,  to  share 

My  comfort  there, — 
Give  me  to  claim  the  service  meet 

That  makes  each  seat 
A  place  of  honor,  and  each  guest 

Loved  as  the  rest. 
(39) 


ROMANCIN'. 


I9  B'EN  a-kindo  musin',  as  the  feller  says,  and  I  'm 
About  o'  the  conclusion  that  they  ain't  no  better 
When  you  come  to  cipher  on  it,  than  the  times  we  used  U 

know 

When  we  swore  our  first  "  dog-gone-it "  sorto  solem'-liki 
and  low! 

You  git  my  idy,  do  you?  -  Little  tads,  you  understand — 
Jes'  a  wishin'  thue  and  thue  you  that  you  on'y  was  a  man.— 
Yit  here  I  am,  this  minute,  even  forty,  to  a  day, 
And  fergittin'  all  that 's  in  it,  wishin'  jes'  the  other  way! 

I  hain't  no  hand  to  lectur'  on  the  times,  er  dimonstrate 
Whur  the  trouble  is,  er  hector  and  domineer  with  Fate,— 
But  when  I  git  so  flurried,  and  so  pestered-like  and  blue, 
And  so  rail  owdacious  worried,  let  me  tell  you  what  I  do!— 

I  jes'  gee-haw  the  hosses,  and  unhook  the  swingle-tree, 
Whur  the  hazel-bushes  tosses  down  their  shadders  ovei 

me, 

And  I  draw  my  plug  o'  navy,  and  I  climb  the  fence,  and  set 
Jes'  a-thinkin'  here,  'y  gravy!  till  my  eyes  is  wringin'-wet! 

Tho'  I  still  kin  see  the  trouble  o'  the  present,  I  kin  see — 
Kindo  like  my  sight  was  double — all  the  things  that  used 

to  be; 

And  the  flutter  o'  the  robin,  and  the  teeter  o'  the  wren 
Sets  the  wilier  branches  bobbin  "  howdy-do  "  thum  Now 

to  Then! 

The  deadnin'  and  the  thicket's  jes'  a  bilin'  full  of  June, 
Thum  the  rattle  o'  the  cricket,  to  the  yallar-hammer's  tune; 
(40) 


ROMANCIN'.  41 

knd  the  catbird  in  the  bottom,  and  the  sap-suck  on  the 

snag, 
Seems  ef  they  cain't— od-rot'em! — jes'do  nothin'  else  but 

brag! 

They 's  music  in  the  twitter  of  the  bluebird  and  the  jay, 
And  that  sassy  little  critter  jes'  a-peckin'  all  the  day; 
They 's  music  in  the  "  flicker,"  and  they 's  music  in  the*' 

thrush, 
And  they 's  music  in  the  snicker  o'  the  chipmunk  in  the 

brush ! 

They 's  music  all  around  me! — And  I  go  back,  in  a  dream — 
Sweeter  yit  than  ever  found  me  fast  asleep — and  in  the 

stream 

That  used  to  split  the  medder  whur  the  dandylions  growed, 
I  stand  knee -deep,  and  redder  than  the  sunset  down  the 

road. 

Then's  when  F  b'en  a-fishin'!— and  they's  other  fellers, 

too, 
With  their  hickry  poles  a-swishin'  out  behind  'em;  and  a 

few 
Little  "  shiners"  on  our  stringers,  with  their  tails  tiptoein' 

bloom, 
As  we  dance  'em  in  our  fingers  all  the  happy  journey  home. 

I  kin  see  us,  true  to  Natur',  thum  the  time  we  started  out 
With  a  biscuit  and  a  'tater  in  our  little  "roundabout!" 
\  kin  see  our  lines  a-tanglin',  and  our  elbows  in  a  jam, 
And  our  naked  legs  a-danglin'  thum  the  apern  of  the  dam. 

I  kin  see  the  honeysuckle  climbin'  up  around  the  mill; 
And  kin  hear  the  worter  chuckle,  and  the  wheel  a-growlin* 

still; 

And  thum  the  bank  below  it  I  kin  steal  the  old  canoe, 
And  jes'  git  in  and  row  it  like  the  miller  used  to  do. 


42  ROMANCIN*. 

W'y,  I  git  my  fancy  focus&ed  on  the  past  so  mortal  plain 
I  kin  even  smell  the  locus'-blossoms  bloomin'  in  the  lane; 
And  I  hear  the  cow-bells  clinkin'  sweeter  tunes  'n  "money 

musk  " 
Fer  the  lightnin'-bugs  a-blinkin' and  a-dancin'in  the  dusk. 

And  so  I  keep  as  the  feller  says,  till  I'm 

Firm-fixed  in  the  conclusion  that  they  hain't  no  better 

time, 
When  you  come  to  cipher  on  it,  than  the  old  times,— and, 

I  swear, 
I  kin  wake  and  say  "dog-gone-it!"  jes'  as  soft  as  any 

prayer  1 


MAS   SHE    FORGOTTEN. 


AS  SHE  forgotten?     On  this  very  May 

We  were  to  meet  here,  with  the  birds  and  bees, 
As^on  that  Sabbath,  underneath  the  trees 
We  strayed  among  the  tombs,  and  stripped  away 
The  vines  from  these  old  granites,  cold  and  gray— 
And  yet,  indeed,  not  grim  enough  were  they 
To  stay  our  kisses,  smiles  and  ecstacies, 
Or  closer  voice-lost  vows  and  rhapsodies. 
Has  she  forgotten — that  the  May  has  won 
Its  promise? — that  the  bird -songs  from  the  tree 
Are  sprayed  above  the  grasses  as  the  sun 
Might  jar  the  dazzling  dew  down  showeringiy? 
Has  she  forgotten  life — love — everyone— 
Has  she  forgotten  me — forgotten  me? 

II. 

Low,  low  down  in  the  violets  I  press 
My  lips  and  whisper  to  her.     Does  she  hear, 
And  yet  hold  silence,  though  I  call  her  dear, 
Just  as  of  old,  save  for  the  tearfulness 
Of  the  clenched  eyes,  and  the  soul's  vast  distress? 
Has  she  forgotten  thus  the  old  caress 
That  made  our  breath  a  quickened  atmosphere 
That  failed  nigh  unto  swooning  with  the  sheer 
Delight?     Mine  arms  clutch  now  this  earthen  heap 
Sodden  with  tears  that  flow  on  ceaselessly 
As  autumn  rains  the  long,  long,  long  nights  weep 
In  memory  of  days  that  used  to  be, — 
Has  she  forgotten  these?     And,  in  her  sleep> 
Has  she  forgotten  me — forgotten  me? 
.(43) 


HAS    SHE   FORGOTTEN. 


III. 

To-night,  against  my  pillow,  with  shut  eyes, 
I  mean  to  weld  our  faces — through  the  dense 
Incalculable  darkness  make  pretense 
That  she  has  risen  from  her  reveries 
To  mate  her  dreams  with  mine  in  marriages 
Of  mellow  palms,  smooth  faces,  and  tense  ease 
Of  every  longing  nerve  of*  indolence, — 
Lift  from  the  grave  her  quiet  lips,  and  stun 
My  senses  with  her  kisses — drawl  the  glee 
Of  her  glad  mouth,  full  blithe  and  tenderly, 
Across  mine  own,  forgetful  if  is  done 
The  old  love's  awful  dawn-time  when  said  we, 
"To-day  is  ours  !"  ....  Ah,  Heaven  !  can  it  be 
She  has  forgotten  me — forgotten  me  ! 


A'  OLD  PLAYED-OUT   SONG. 


r-rp  ,g  THE  curiousest  thing  in  creation, 

*•     Whenever  I  hear  that  old  song, 

'Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?"  I  'm  so  bothered, 

My  life  seems  as  short  as  it 's  long!— 
Fer  ever'thing  'pears  like  adzackly 

It  'peared,  in  the  years  past  and  gone, — 
When  I  started  out  sparkin',  at  twenty, 
And  had  my  first  neckercher  on! 

Though  I  'm  wrinkelder,  older  and  grayer 

Right  now  than  my  parents  was  then, 
You  strike  up  that  song,  " Do  They  Miss  Me?'* 

And  I  'm  jest  a  youngster  again  !— 
I  'm  a-standin'  back  there  in  the  furries 

A-wishin'  fer  evening  to  come, 
And  a-whisperin'  over  and  over 

Them  words,  "Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 

You  see,  Marthy  Ellen  she  sung  it 

The  first  time  I  heerd  it;  and  so, 
As  she  was  my  very  first  sweetheart, 

It  reminds  of  her,  do  n't  you  know,— 
How  her  face  ust  to  look,  in  the  twilight, 

As  I  tuck  her  to  spellin';  and  she 
Kep'  a-hummin'  that  song  'tel  I  ast  her, 

Pine-blank,  ef  she  ever  missed  me! 

I  can  shet  my  eyes  now,  as  you  sing  it, 
And  hear  her  low  answerin'  words, 

And  then  the  glad  chirp  of  the  crickets 
As  clear  as  the  twitter  of  birds; 
(45) 


A*    OLD  PLAYED-OUT    SONG. 

And  the  dust  in  the  road  is  like  velvet, 
And  the  ragweed,  and  fennel,  and  grass 

Is  as  sweet  as  the  scent  of  the  lilies 
Of  Eden  of  old,  as  we  pass. 

'Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?"  Sing  it  lower— 

And  softer — and  sweet  as  the  breeze 
That  powdered  our  path  with  the  snowy 

White  bloom  of  the  old  locus'-trees! 
Let  the  whippoorwills  he'p  you  to  sing  it, 

And  the  echoes  'way  over  the  hill, 
'Tel  the  moon  boolges  out,  in  a  chorus 

Of  stars,  and  our  voices  is  still. 

But,  oh!  "  They 's  a  chord  in  the  music 

That 's  missed  when  her  voice  is  away!" 
Though  I  listen  from  midnight  'tel  morning, 

And  dawn,  'tel  the  dusk  of  the  day; 
And  I  grope  through  the  dark,  lookin'  up'ards 

And  on  through  the  heavenly  dome, 
With  my  longin'  soul  singm'  and  sobbin' 

The  words,  "  Do  They  Miss  Me  at  Home?" 


THE  LOST  PATH. 

X  LONE  they  walked— their  fingers  knit  together, 
-*•  V^And  swaying  listlessly  as  might  a  swing 
Wherein  Dan  Cupid  dangled  in  the  weather 

Of  some  sun-flooded  afternoon  of  Spring. 

Within  the  clover-fields  the  tickled  cricket 
Laughed  lightly  as  they  loitered  down  the  lane. 

And  from  the  covert  of  the  hazel-thicket 
The  squirrel  peeped  and  laughed  at  them  again. 

The  bumble-bee  that  tipped  the  lily-vases 

Along  the  road-side  in  the  shadows  dim, 
Went  following  the  blossoms  of  their  faces 

As  though  their  sweets  must  needs  be  shared  will:  him. 

Between  the  pasture  bars  the  wondering  cattle 
Stared  wistfully,  and  from  their  mellow  bells 

Shook  out  a  welcoming  whose  dreamy  rattle 
Fell  swooningly  away  in  faint  farewells. 

And  though  at  last  the  gloom  of  night  fell  o'er  them, 
And  folded  all  the  landscape  from  their  eyes, 

They  only  know  the  dusky  path  before  them 
Was  leading  safely  on  to  Paradise. 


THE   LITTLE  TINY  KICKSHAW 
" — And  any  little  tiny  kickshaws" — Shakespeare. 

OTHE    LITTLE   tiny  kickshaw  that   Mither  sent 
tae  me, 

'Tis  sweeter  than  the  sugar-plum  that  reepens  on  the  tree, 
Wi'  denty  flavorin's  o'  spice  an'  musky  rosemarie, 
The  little  tiny  kickshaw  that  Mither  sent  tae  me. 

'Tis  luscious  wi'  the  stalen  tang  o'  fruits  frae  ower  the  sea, 
An'  e'en  its  fragrance  gars  we  laugh  wi'  langin'  lip  an'  ee, 
Till  a'  its  frazen  sheen  o'  white  maun  melten  hinnie  be — 
Sae  weel  I  luve  the  kickshaw  that  Mither  sent  tae  me. 

O  I  luve  the  tiny  kickshaw,  an'  I  smack  my  lips  wi'  glee, 
Aye  mickle  do  I  luve  the  taste  o'  sic  a  luxourie, 
But  maist  I  luve  the  luvein'  han's  that  could  the  giftie  gie 
O'  the  little  tiny  kickshaw  that  Mither  sent  tae  me. 


HIS  MOTHER. 


EAD!  my  wayward  boy — my 
Not  the  Law's!  but  mine — the  good 
God's  free  gift  to  me  alone, 
Sanctified  by  motherhood. 

"Bad,"  you  say:  Well,  who  is  not? 
"  Brutal "— "  with  a  heart  of  stone  " — 

And  "red-handed."— Ah!  the  hot 

Blood  upon  your  own  I 

I  come  not,  with  downward  eyes, 
To  plead  for  him  shamedly, — 
God  did  not  apologize 
When  He  gave  the  boy  to  me. 

Simply,  I  make  ready  now 
For  H*"  verdict. — Ton  prepare— 
You  have  killed  us  both — and  hoW 
Will  you  face  us  There! 


o 


KISSING  THE  ROD. 

HEART  of  mine,  we  should  n't 

Worry  so! 
What  we  've  missed  of  calm  we  could  r* 

Have,  you  know! 
What  we  've  met  of  stormy  pain, 
And  of  sorrow's  driving  rain, 
We  can  better  meet  again, 

If  it  blow! 

We  have  erred  in  that  dark  hour 

We  have  known, 
When  our  tears  fell  with  the  shower, 

All  alone!— 

Were  not  shine  and  shadow  blent 
As  the  gracious  Master  meant? — 
Let  us  temper  our  content 

With  His  own. 

For,  we  know,  not  every  morrow 

Can  be  sad; 
So,  forgetting  all  the  sorrow 

We  have  had, 
Let  us  fold  away  our  fears, 
And  put  by  our  foolish  tears, 
And  through  all  the  coming  years 

Just  be  glad. 


HOW   IT   HAPPENED. 

I  GOT  to  thinkin'  of  her — both  her  parents  dead  and 
gone — 

And  all  her  sisters  married  off,  and  none  but  her  and  John 
A-livin'  all  alone  there  in  that  lonesome  sort  o'  way, 
And  him  a  blame  old  bachelor,  confirmder  ev'ry  day! 
I'd  knowed  'em  all  from  childern,  and  their  daddy  from 

the  time 

He  settled  in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  n't  ary  a  dime 
Er  dollar,  when  he  married,  fer  to  start  housekeepin'  on! — 
So  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her — both  her  parents  dead  and 

gone! 

I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her;  and  a-wundern  what  she  done 
That  all  her  sisters  kep'  a  gittin'  married,  one  by  one, 
And  her  without  no  chances— and  the  best  girl  of  the 

pack — 
An  old  maid,  with  her  hands,  you  might  say,  tied  behind 

her  back! 

And  Mother,  too,  afore  she  died,  she  ust  to  jes'  take  on, 
When  none  of  'em  was  left,  you  know,  but  Evaline  and 

John, 
And  jes'  declare  to  goodness  'at  the  young  men  must  be 

bline 
To  not  see  what  a  wife  they  'd  git  if  they  got  Evaline! 

I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her;  in  my  great  affliction  she 

Was  sich  a  comfert  to  us,  and  so  kind  and  neighberly, — 

She  'd  come,  and  leave  her  housework,  fer  to  he'p  out 

little  Jane, 

And  talk  of  her  own  mother  'at  she  'd  never  see  again — 
Maybe  sometimes  cry  together — though,  fer  the  most  part 

she 


52  HOW  IT   HAPPENED. 

Would  have  the  child  so  riconciled  and  happy-like  'at  we 
Felt  lonesomer  'n  ever  when  she  'd  put  her  bonnet  on 
And  say  she  'd  railly  haf  to  be  a-gittin'  back  to  John! 

I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her,  as  I  say, — and  more  and  more 
1  'd  think  of  her  dependence,  and  the  burdens  'at  she  bore, — 
Her  parents  both  a-bein'  dead,  and  all  her  sisters  gone 
And  married  off,  and  her  a-livin'  there  alone  with  John — 
You  might  say  jes'  a-toilin'  and  a-slavin'  out  her  life 
Fer  a  man  'at  hadn't  pride  enough  to  git  hisse'f  a  wife — 
'Less  some  one  married  Rvaline,  and  packed  her  off  some 

day! — 
So  I  got  to  thinkin'  of  her — and  it  happened  thataway. 


BABYHOOD. 


O!  Babyhood!  Tell  me  where  you  linger: 
's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone  astray; 
Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me  by  the  finger 
Back  to  the  Lotus  lands  of  the  far-away. 

Turn  back  the   leaves  of  life;  do  n't  read  the  story,  — 
Let's  find  the  pictures,  and  fancy  all  the  rest:  — 

We  can  fill  the  written  pages  with  a  brighter  glory 
Than  Old  Time,  the  story-teller,  at  his  very  best! 

Turn  to  the  brook,  where  the  honeysuckle,  tipping 
O'er  its  vase  of  perfume  spills  it  on  the  breeze, 

And  the  bee  and  humming-bird  in  ecstacy  are  sipping 
From  the  fairy  flagons  of  the  blooming  locust  trees. 

Turn  to  the  lane,  where  we  used  to  "  teeter-totter," 
Printing  little  foot-palms  in  the  mellow  mold, 

Laughing  at  the  lazy  cattle  wading  in  the  water 

Where  the  ripples  dimple  round  the  buttercups  of  gold: 

Where  the  dusky  turtle  lies  basking  on  the  gravel 

Of  the  sunny  sandbar  in  the  middle-tide, 
And  the  ghostly  dragonfly  pauses  in  his  travel 

To  rest  like  a  blossom  where  the  water-lily  died. 

Heigh-ho!  Babyhood!  Tell  me  where  you  linger: 
Let  's  toddle  home  again,  for  we  have  gone  astray; 

Take  this  eager  hand  of  mine  and  lead  me  by  the  finger 
Back  to  the  Lotus  lands  of  the  far-away. 


THE   DAYS  GONE  BY. 

OTHE  DAYS  gone  by!  O  the  days  gone  by! 
The  apples  in  the  orchard,  and  the  pathway  through 

the  rye; 

The  chirrup  of  the  robin,  and  the  whistle  of  the  quail 
As  he  piped  across  the  meadows  sweet  as  any  nightingale; 
When  the  bloom  was  on  the  clover,  and  the  blue  was  in 

the  sky, 
And  my  happy  heart  brimmed  over  in  the  days  gone  by. 

In  the  days  gone  by,  when  my  naked  feet  were  tripped 
By    the    honey-suckle's    tangles    where    the   water-lilies 

dipped, 

And  the  ripples  of  the  river  lipped  the  moss  along  the  brink 
Where  the  placid-eyed  and    lazy-footed  cattle  came    to 

drink, 

And  the  tilting  snipe  stood  fearless  of  the  truant's  way 
ward  cry 
And  the  splashing  of  the  swimmer,  in  the  days  gone  by. 

O  the  days  gone  by!  O  the  days  gone  by! 
The  music  of  the  laughing  lip,  the  luster  of  the  eye; 
The  childish  faith  in  fairies,  and  Aladdin's  magic  ring — 
The  simple,  soul-reposing,  glad  belief  in  everything, — 
When  life  was  like  a  story,  holding  neither  sob  nor  sigh, 
In  the  golden  olden  glory  of  the  days  gone  by. 


fyfrs.   Jy 


MRS.   MILLER. 

JOHN  B.  McKINNEY,  Attorney  and 
Counselor  at  Law,  as  his  sign  read,  was, 
for  many  reasons,  a  fortunate  man.    For  many 
other  reasons  he  was  not.    He  was  chiefly  for 
tunate  in  being,  as  certain  opponents  often 
strove  to  witheringly  designate  him,  "the  son 
of  his  father,"  since  that  sound  old  gentleman 
was  the  wealthiest  farmer  in  that  section,  with 
but  one  son  and  heir  to,   in  time,  supplant 
him  in  the  role  of  "  county  god,"  and  haply 
perpetuate  the  prouder  title  of  "the  biggest 
tax-payer  on  the  assessment  list."     And  this 
fact,   too,  fortunate    as   it   would  seem,  was 
doubtless  the  indirect  occasion   of  a  liberal 
percentage  of  all  John's  misfortunes.     From 
his  earliest  school-days  in  the  little  town,  up 
to  his  tardy  graduation  from  a  distant  college, 
the  influence  of  his  father's  wealth  invited  his 
procrastination,  humored  its  results,  encour 
aged  the  laxity  of  his  ambition,  "  and  even 
now,"  as  John  used,  in  bitter  irony,  to  put  it, 
"it  is  aiding  and  abetting  me  in  the  ostensible 
practice  of  my  chosen  profession,  a  listless, 
aimless  undetermined  man  of  forty,  and  a  con- 
(57) 


5 8  MRS.  MILLER. 

firmed  bachelor  at  that ! "  At  the  utterance 
of  this  self-depreciating  statement,  John  gen 
erally  jerked  his  legs  down  from  the  top  of  his 
desk  ;  and,  rising  and  kicking  his  chair  back 
to  the  wall,  he  would  stump  around  his  littered 
office  till  the  manilla  carpet  steamed  with  dust. 
Then  he  would  wildly  break  away,  seeking 
refuge  either  in  the  open  street,  or  in  his  room 
at  the  old-time  tavern,  The  Eagle  House, 
61  where,"  he  would  say,  "I  have  lodged  and 
boarded,  I  do  solemnly  asseverate,  for  a  long, 
unbroken,  middle-aged  eternity  of  ten  years, 
and  can  yet  assert,  in  the  words  of  the  more 
fortunately-dying  Webster,  that '  I  still  live  ! '" 
Extravagantly  satirical  as  he  was  at  times, 
John  had  always  an  indefinable  drollery  about 
him  that  made  him  agreeable  company  to  his 
friends,  at  least ;  and  such  an  admiring  friend 
he  had  constantly  at  hand  in  the  person  of 
Bert  Haines.  Both  were  Bohemians  in  nat 
ural  tendency,  and,  though  John  was  far  in 
Bert's  advance  in  point  of  age,  he  found  the 
young  man  "just  the  kind  of  a  fellow  to  have 
around ;"  while  Bert,  in  turn,  held  his  senior 
in  profound  esteem — looked  up  to  him,  in  fact, 
and  in  even  his  eccentricities  strove  to  pattern 
after  him.  And  so  it  was,  when  summer  days 
were  dull  and  tedious,  these  two  could  muse  and 
doze  the  hours  away  together ;  and  when  the 


MRS.  MILLER.  59 

nights  were  long,  and  dark,  and  deep,  and 
beautiful,  they  could  drift  out  in  the  noon- 
light  of  the  stars,  and  with  ''the  soft  com 
plaining  flute"  and  "warbling  lute,"  "lay 
the  pipes,"  as  John  would  say,  for  their  en 
during  popularity  with  the  girls  !  And  it  was 
immediately  subsequent  to  one  of  these  ro 
mantic  excursions,  when  the  belated  pair,  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  had  skulked  up 
a  side  stairway  of  the  old  hotel,  and  gained 
John's  room,  with  nothing  more  serious  hap 
pening  than  Bert  falling  over  a  trunk  and 
smashing  his  guitar, — just  after  such  a  night 
of  romance  and  adventure  it  was  that,  in  the 
seclusion  of  John's  room,  Bert  had  something 
of  especial  import  to  communicate* 

"Mack,"  he  said,  as  that  worthy  anathe 
matized  a  spiteful  match,  and  then  sucked  his 
finger. 

"Blast  the  all-fired  old  torch!"  said  John, 
wrestling  with  the  lamp-flue,  and  turning  on 
a  welcome  flame  at  last.  "Well,  you  said 
'  Mack  !  '  Why  do  n't  you  go  on?  And  do  n't 
bawl  at  the  top  of  your  lungs,  either.  You  Ve 
already  succeeded  in  waking  every  boarder 
in  the  house  with  that  guitar,  and  you  want 
to  make  amends  now  by  letting  them  go  to 
sleep  again !  " 

"But  my   dear   fellow,"   said   Bert,   with 


6O  MRS.  MILLER. 

forced  calmness,  "you're  the  fellow  that's 
making  all  the  noise — and — " 

"  Why,  you  howling  dervish  !  "  interrupted 
John,  with  a  feigned  air  of  pleased  surprise 
and  admiration.  "  But  let 's  drop  controversy. 
Throw  the  fragments  of  your  guitar  in  the 
wood-box  there,  and  proceed  with  the  open 
ing  proposition." 

"  What  I  was  going  to  say  was  this,"  said 
Bert,  with  a  half-desperate  enunciation  ;  "I  'm 
getting  tired  of  this  way  of  living — clean,  dead- 
tired,  and  fagged  out,  and  sick  of  the  whole 
artificial  business ! " 

"  Oh,  yes  ! "  exclaimed  John,  with  a  tower 
ing  disdain,  "  you  need  n't  go  any  further !  I 
know  just  what  malady  is  throttling  you.  It 's 
reform — reform  !  You  're  going  to  '  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,'  and  all  that,  and  sign  the  pledge, 
and  quit  cigars,  and  go  to  work,  and  pay  your 
debts,  and  gravitate  back  into  Sunday-School, 
where  you  can  make  love  to  the  preacher's 
daughter  under  the  guise  of  religion,  and  des 
ecrate  the  sanctity  of  the  innermost  pale  of 
the  church  by  confessions  at  Class  of  your 
'  thorough  conversion  ! '  Oh,  you  're  going 

"No,  but  I'm  going  to  do  nothing  of  the 
sort,"  interrupted  Bert,  resentfully.  "What  I 


MRS.  MILLER.  6l 

mean — if  you  '11  let  me  finish — is,  I  'm  getting 
too  old  to  be  eternally  undignifying  myself  with 
this  '  singing  of  midnight  strains  under  Bon- 
nybell's  window  panes,'  and  too  old  to  be 
keeping  myself  in  constant  humiliation  and 
expense  by  the  borrowing  and  stringing  up 
of  old  guitars,  together  with  the  breakage  of 
the  same,  and  the  general  wear-and-tear  on  a 
constitution  that  is  slowly  being  sapped  to  its 
foundations  by  exposure  in  the  night-air  and 
the  dew."  "And  while  you  receive  no  further 
compensation  in  return,"  said  John,  "  than, 
perhaps,  the  coy  turning  up  of  a  lamp  at 
an  upper  casement  where  the  jasmine  climbs  ; 
or  an  exasperating  patter  of  invisible  palms  ; 
or  a  huge  dank  wedge  of  fruit-cake  shoved  at 
you  by  the  old  man,  through  a  crack  in  the 
door." 

"  Yes,  and  I  'm  going  to  have  my  just  re 
ward,  is  what  I  mean,"  said  Bert,  "  and 
exchange  the  lover's  life  for  the  benedict's. 
Going  to  hunt  out  a  good,  sensible  girl  and 
marry  her."  And  as  the  young  man  con 
cluded  this  desperate  avowal  he  jerked  the 
bow  of  his  cravat  into  a  hard  knot,  kicked  his 
hat  under  the  bed,  and  threw  himself  on  the 
sofa  like  an  old  suit. 

John  stared  at  him  with  absolute  compas- 


62  MRS.  MILLER. 

sion.     "  Poor  devil,"  he  said,  half  musingly, 
5<  I  know  just  how  he  feels — 

'  Ring  in  the  wind  his  wedding  chimes, 

Smile,  villagers,  at  every  door; 
Old  church-yards  stuffed  with  buried  crimes, 
Be  clad  in  sunshine  o'er  and  o'er. — " 

"  Oh,  here  !  "  exclaimed  the  wretched  Bert, 
jumping  to  his  feet ;  "  let  up  on  that  dismal 
recitative.  It  would  make  a  dog  howl  to  hear 
that!" 

"  Then  you  Met  up  '  on  that  suicidal  talk  of 
marrying,"  replied  John,  "and  all  that  ha 
rangue  of  incoherency  about  your  growing 
old.  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  you  're  at  least  a 
dozen  years  my  junior,  and  look  at  me!" 
and  John  glanced  at  himself  in  the  glass  with 
a  feeble  pride,  noting  the  gray  sparseness  of 
his  side-hair,  and  its  plaintive  dearth  on  top. 
"  Of  course  I  've  got  to  admit,"  he  continued, 
"  that  my  hair  is  gradually  evaporating;  but 
for  all  that,  I  'm  '  still  in  the  ring,'  do  n't  you 
know ;  as  young  in  society,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  as  yourself!  And  this  is  just  the  reason 
why  I  do  n't  want  you  to  blight  every  pros 
pect  in  your  life  by  marrying  at  your  age — 
especially  a  woman — I  mean  the  kind  of 
woman  you  'd  be  sure  to  fancy  at  your  age." 

"  Did  n't  I  say  '  a  good,  sensible  girl '  was 
the  kind  I  had  selected?"  Bert  remonstrated. 


MRS.  MILLER.  63 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  John,  "  you  've  selected 
her,  then? — and  without  one  word  to  me  ! "  he 
ended,  rebukingly. 

"  Well,  hang  it  all !  "  said  Bert,  impatiently  ; 
66 1  knew  how  you  were,  and  just  how  you  'd 
talk  me  out  of  it ;  and  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  for  once,  at  least,  I  'd  follow  the  dicta 
tions  of  a  heart  that — however  capricious  in 
youthful  frivolties — should  beat,  in  manhood, 
loyal  to  itself  and  loyal  to  its  own  affinity." 

66  Go  it !  Fire  away  !  Farewell,  vain  world  !" 
exclaimed  the  excited  John. — "Trade  your 
soul  off  for  a  pair  of  ear-bobs  and  a  button 
hook — a  hank  of  jute  hair  and  a  box  of  lily- 
white  !  I  've  buried  not  less  than  ten  old 
chums  this  way,  and  here  's  another  nomi 
nated  for  the  tomb." 

"But  you've  got  no  reason  about  you," 
began  Bert, — "  I  want  to" — 

"  And  so  do  /  '  want  to,'  "  broke  in  John, 
finally, —  "I  want  to  get  some  sleep.  —  So 
4  register'  and  come  to  bed. — And  lie  up  on 
edge,  too,  when  you  do  come — 'cause  this  old 
catafalque-of-a-bed  is  just  about  as  narrow 
as  your  views  of  single  blessedness  !  Peace  ! 
Not  another  word  !  Pile  in  !  Pile  in  !  I  'm 
three-parts  sick,  anyhow,  and  I  want  rest ! " 
And  very  truly  he  spoke. 


64  MRS.  MILLER. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  when  the  slothful 
John  was  aroused  by  a  long,  vociferous  pound 
ing  on  the  door.  He  started  up  in  bed  to  find 
himself  alone — the  victim  of  his  wrathful  irony 
having  evidently  risen  and  fled  away  while 
his  pitiless  tormentor  slept — "  Doubtless  to  at 
once  accomplish  that  nefarious  intent  as  set 
forth  by  his  unblushing  confession  of  last 
night,"  mused  the  miserable  John.  And  he 
ground  his  fingers  in  the  corners  of  his  swollen 
eyes,  and  leered  grimly  in  the  glass  at  the 
feverish  orbs,  blood-shotten,  blurred  and 
aching. 

The  pounding  on  the  door  continued.  John 
looked  at  his  watch ;  it  was  only  8  o'clock. 

"  Hi,  there  !  "  he  called  viciously.  "What 
do  you  mean,  anyhow?"  he  went  on,  elevating 
his  voice  again ;  "  shaking  a  man  out  of  bed 
when  he's  just  dropping  into  his  first  sleep?" 

"I  mean  that  you  're  going  to  get  up  ;  that 's 
what !  "  replied  a  firm  female  voice.  "  It 's  8 
o'clock,  and  I  want  to  put  your  room  in  order  ; 
and  I  'm  not  going  to  wait  all  day  about  it, 
either  !  Get  up  and  go  down  to  your  breakfast, 
and  let  me  have  the  room  !  "  And  the  clamor 
at  the  door  was  industriously  renewed. 

44  Say  !  "  called  John,  querulously,  hurrying 
on  his  clothes,  "  Say  !  you  !  " 

"  There's  no  *  say  '  about  ^t!"   responded 


MRS.  MILLER.  65 

the  determined  voice :  "I  've  heard  about  you 
and  your  ways  around  this  house,  and  I  'm 
not  going  to  put  up  with  it !  You  '11  not  lie  in 
bed  till  high  noon  when  I  Ve  got  to  keep  your 
room  in  proper  order  !  " 

"Oh  ho!"  bawled  John,  intelligently: 
*  'reckon  you  're  the  new  invasion  here  ?  Doubt 
less  you  're  the  girl  that 's  been  hanging  up 
the  new  window-blinds  that  won't  roll,  and 
disguising  the  pillows  with  clean  slips,  and 
'hennin'  round  among  my  books  and  papers  on 
the  table  here,  and  ageing  me  generally  till  I 
do  n't  know  my  own  handwriting  by  the  time  I 
find  it !  Oh,  yes  !  you  're  going  to  revolutionize 
things  here  ;  you  're  going  to  introduce  prompt 
ness,  and  system,  and  order.  See  you've 
even  filled  the  wash-pitcher  and  tucked  two 
starched  towels  through  the  handle.  Have  n't 
got  any  tin  towels,  have  you  ?  I  rather  like  this 
new  soap,  too !  So  solid  and  durable,  you 
know  ;  warranted  not  to  raise  a  lather.  Might 
as  well  wash  one's  hands  with  a  door-knob  !  " 
And  as  John's  voice  grumbled  away  into  the 
sullen  silence  again,  the  determined  voice 
without  responded  :  "Oh,  you  can  growl  away 
to  your  heart's  content,  Mr.  McKinney,  but  I 
want  you  to  distinctly  understand  that  I  'm  not 
going  to  humor  you  in  any  of  your  old  bach 
elor,  sluggardly,  slovenly  ways,  and  whims 
5 


66  MRS.  MILLER. 

and  notions.  And  I  want  you  to  understand, 
too,  that  I  'm  not  hired  help  in  this  house,  nor 
a  chambermaid,  nor  anything  of  the  kind. 
I  'm  the  landlady  here  ;  and  I  '11  give  you  just 
ten  minutes  more  to  get  down  to  your  break 
fast,  or  you  '11  not  get  any — that 's  all !  "  And 
as  the  reversed  cuff  John  was  in  the  act  of 
.buttoning  slid  from  his  wrist  and  rolled  under 
the  dresser,  he  heard  a  stiff  rustling  of  starched 
muslin  flouncing  past  the  door,  and  the  quick 
italicized  patter  of  determined  gaiters  down 
the  hall. 

"  Look  here,"  said  John  to  the  bright-faced 
boy  in  the  hotel  office,  a  half  hour  later.  "  It 
seems  the  house  here  's  been  changing  hands 
again." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  closing  the  cigar 
case,  and  handing  him  a  lighted  match. 
"  Well,  the  new  landlord,  whoever  he  is," 
continued  John,  patronizingly,  "is  a  good 
one.  Leastwise,  he  knows  what's  good  to 
eat,  and  how  to  serve  it." 

The  boy  laughed  timidly, — "It  aint  a  'land 
lord,'  though  —  it's  a  landlady;  it's  my 
mother." 

"  Ah,"  said  John,  dallying  with  the  change 
the  boy  had  pushed  toward  him.  "Your 
mother,  eh?  "  And  where 's  your  father?  " 

"  He 's  dead,"  said  the  boy. 


MRS.  MILLER.  $*j 

"And  what's  this  for?"  abruptly  asked 
John,  examining  his  change. 

"That  'syour  change,"  said  the  boy  :  "You 
got  three  for  a  quarter,  and  gave  me  a  half." 

"Well,  you  just  keep  it,'*'  said  John,  sliding 
back  the  change.  "It's  for  good  luck,  you 
know,  my  boy.  Same  as  drinking  your  long 
life  and  prosperity.  And,  Oh  yes,  by  the  way, 
you  may  tell  your  mother  I  '11  have  a  friend- to 
dinner  with  me  to-day." 

"Yes,  sir,  and  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the 
beaming  boy. 

"Handsome  boy  !"  mused  John,  as  he  walked 
down  street.  "Takes  that  from  his  father, 
though,  I  '11  wager  my  existence !  " 

Upon  his  office  desk  John  found  a  hastily 
written  note.  It  was  addressed  in  the  well- 
known  hand  of  his  old  chum.  He  eyed  the 
missive  apprehensively,  and  there  was  a  pos 
itive  pathos  in  his  voice  as  he  said  aloud, 
"It's  our  divorce.  I  feel  it!"  The  note, 
headed,  "At  the  Office,  4  in  Morning,"  ran 
like  this : 

"Dear  Mack— I  left  you  slumbering  so 
soundly  that,  by  noon,  when  you  waken,  I 
hope,  in  your  refreshed  state,  you  will  look 
more  tolerantly  on  my  intentions  as  partially 
confided  to  you  this  night.  I  will  not  see  you 
here  again  to  say  good-bye.  I  wanted  to,  but 


68  MRS.  MILLER. 

was  afraid  to  *  rouse  the  sleeping  lion.'  I  will 
not  close  my  eyes  to-night — fact  is,  I  have  n't 
time.  Our  serenade  at  Josie's  was  a  pre-ar 
ranged  signal  by  which  she  is  to  be  ready  and 
at  the  station  for  the  5  morning  train.  You 
may  remember  the  lighting  of  three  consecu 
tive  matches  at  her  window  before  the  igniting 
of  her  lamp.  That  meant,  'Thrice  dearest  one, 
I  '11  meet  thee  at  the  depot  at  4 : 30  sharp.' 
So,  my  dear  Mack,  this  is  to  inform  you  that, 
even  as  you  read,  Josie  and  I  have  eloped.  It 
is  all  the  old  man's  fault,  yet  I  forgive  him. 
Hope  he  '11  return  the  favor.  Josie  predicts  he 
will,  inside  of  a  week — or  two  weeks,  anyhow. 
Good-bye,  Mack,  old  boy ;  and  let  a  fellow 
down  as  easy  as  you  can.  Affectionately, 

"  BERT." 

"  Heavens  !  "  exclaimed  John,  stifling  the 
note  in  his  hand  and  stalking  tragically  around 
the  room.  "Can  it  be  possible  that  I  have 
nursed  a  frozen  viper?  An  ingrate?  A  wolf  in 
sheep's  clothing?  An  orang-outang  in  gent's 
furnishings?" 

"Was  you  callin'  me,  sir?"  asked  a  voice 
at  the  door.  It  was  the  janitor. 

"  No  !  "  thundered  John  ;  "  Quit  my  sight ! 
get  out  of  my  way  !  No,  no,  Thompson,  I  don't 
mean  that,"  he  called  after  him.  "Here  's  a 
half  dollar  for  you,  and  I  want  you  to  lock  up 


MRS.  MILLER.  69 

the  office,  and  tell  anybody  that  wants  to  see 
me  that  I  Ve  been  set  upon,  and  sacked  and 
assassinated  in  cold  blood ;  and  I  've  fled  to 
my  father's  in  the  country,  and  am  lying  there 
in  the  convulsions  of  dissolution,  babbling  of 
green  fields  and  running  brooks,  and  thirsting 
for  the  life  of  every  woman  that  comes  in  gun 
shot  ! "  And  then,  more  like  a  confirmed  in 
valid  than  a  man  in  the  strength  and  pride  of 
his  prime,  he  crept  down  into  the  street  again, 
and  thence  back  to  his  hotel. 

Dejectedly  and  painfully  climbing  to  his 
room,  he  encountered,  on  the  landing  above, 
a  little  woman  in  a  jaunty  dusting-cap  and  a 
trim  habit  of  crisp  muslin.  He  tried  to  evade 
her,  but  in  vain.  She  looked  him  squarely  in 
the  face — occasioning  him  the  dubious  impres 
sion  of  either  needing  shaving  very  badly,  or 
having  egg-stains  on  his  chin. 

"  You  're  the  gentleman  in  No.  n,  I  be 
lieve?"  she  said. 

He  nodded  confusedly. 

"Mr.  McKinney  is  your  name,  I  think?" 
she  queried,  with  a  pretty  elevation  of  the  eye 
brows. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  John,  rather  abjectly. 
"You  see,  ma'am — But  I  beg  pardon,"  he 
went  on  stammeHngly,  and  with  a  very  awk- 


7O  MRS.  MILLER. 

ward  bow — "  I  beg  pardon,  but  I  am  address 
ing — ah — the — ah — the — ' ' 

"You  are  addressing  the  new  landlady," 
she  interpolated,  pleasantly.  "Mrs.  Miller 
is  my  name.  I  think  we  should  be  friends, 
Mr.  McKinney,  since  I  hear  that  you  are  one 
of  the  oldest  patrons  of  the  house." 

"Thank  you — thank  you  !  "  said  John,  com 
pletely  embarrassed.  "Yes,  indeed  ! — ha,  ha. 
Oh,  yes — yes — really,  we  must  be  quite  old 
friends,  I  assure  you,  Mrs. — Mrs. — " 

"  Mrs.  Miller,"  smilingly  prompted  the  little 
woman. 

"  Yes,  ah,  yes, — Mrs.  Miller.  Lovely  morn 
ing,  Mrs.  Miller,"  said  John,  edging  past  her 
and  backing  toward  his  room. 

But  as  Mrs.  Miller  was  laughing  outright,  for 
some  mysterious  reason,  and  gave  no  affirma 
tion  in  response  to  his  proposition  as  to  the 
quality  of  the  weather,  John,  utterly  abashed 
and  nonplussed,  darted  into  his  room  and 
closed  the  door.  "  Deucedly  extraordinary 
woman!  "he  thought;  "wonder  what's  her 
idea!" 

He  remained  locked  in  his  room  till  the 
dinner-hour  ;  and,  when  he  promptly  emerged 
for  that  occasion,  there  was  a  very  noticeable 
improvement  in  his  personal  appearance,  in 
point  of  dress,  at  least,  though  there  still 


MRS.  MILLER.  *]l 

lingered  about  his  smoothly-shaven  features 
a  certain  haggard,  care-worn,  anxious  look 
that  would  not  out. 

Next  his  own  place  at  the  table  he  found  a 
chair  tilted  forward,  as  though  in  reservation 
for  some  honored  guest.  What  did  it  mean: 
Oh,  he  remembered  now.  Told  the  boy  to 
tell  his  mother  he  would  have  a  friend  to  dine 
with  him.  Bert — and,  blast  the  fellow!  he 
was,  doubtless,  dining  then  with  a  far  prefer 
able  companion — his  wife — in  a  palace-car  on 
the  P.,  C.  &  St.  L.,  a  hundred  miles  away. 
The  thought  was  maddening.  Of  course, 
now,  the  landlady  would  have  material  for  a 
new  assault.  And  how  could  he  avert  it?  A 
despairing  film  blurred  his  sight  for  the  mo 
ment — then  the  eyes  flashed  daringly.  "  I 
will  meet  it  like  a  man  ! "  he  said,  mentally — 
"yea,  like  a  State's  Attorney, — I  will  invite 
it !  Let  her  do  her  worst ! " 

He  called  a  servant,  directing  some  mes 
sage  in  an  undertone. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  agreeable  servant,  "I  '11 
go  right  away,  sir,"  and  left  the  room. 

Five  minutes  elapsed,  and  then  a  voice  at 
his  shoulder  startled  him  : 

"Did  you  send  for  me,  Mr.  McKinney? 
What  is  it  I  can  do?" 

"You  are  very  kind.  Mrs. —  Mrs. — " 


72  MRS.  MILLER. 

"  Mrs.  Miller,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  smile 
that  he  remembered. 

"Now,  please  spare  me  even  the  mildest 
of  rebukes.  I  deserve  your  censure,  but  I 
can  't  stand  it — I  can  't  positively  !  "  and  there 
was  a  pleading  look  in  John's  lifted  eyes  that 
changed  the  little  woman's  smile  to  an  expres 
sion  of  real  solicitude.  "  I  have  sent  for  you," 
continued  John,  "to  ask  of  you  three  great 
favors.  Please  be  seated  while  I  enumerate 
them.  First — I  want  you  to  forgive  and  for 
get  that  ill-natured,  uncalled-for  grumbling 
of  mine  this  morning  when  you  wakened  me." 

"Why,  certainly,"  said  the  landlady,  again 
smiling,  though  quite  seriously. 

"I  thank  you,"  said  John,  with  dignity. 
"And,  second,"  he  continued—"  I  want  your 
assurance  that  my  extreme  confusion  and 
awkwardness  on  the  occasion  of  our  meeting 
later  were  rightly  interpreted." 

"Certainly — certainly,"  said  the  landlady, 
with  the  kindliest  sympathy. 

"I  am  grateful — utterly,"  said  John,  with 
newer  dignity.  "And  then,"  he  went  on, — 
"  after  informing  you  that  it  is  impossible  for 
the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world  to  be  with 
me  at  this  hour,  as  intended,  I  want  you  to  do 
me  the  very  great  honor  of  dining  with  me. 
Will  you?" 


MRS.  MILLER. 


73 


"  Why,  certainly,"  said  the  charming  little 
landlady — "and  a  thousand  thanks  beside! 
But  tell  me  something  of  your  friend,"  she  con 
tinued,  as  they  were  being  served.  "What 
is  he  like — and  what  is  his  name — and  where 
is  he?" 

"  Well,"  said  John,  warily,—"  he  's  like  all 
young  fellows  of  his  age.  He  's  quite  young, 
you  know — not  over  thirty,  I  should  say— a 
mere  boy,  in  fact,  but  clever — talented — ver 
satile." 

" — Unmarried,  of  course,"  said  the  chatty 
little  woman. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  John,  in  a  matter-of- 
course  tone — but  he  caught  himself  abruptly 
— then  stared  intently  at  his  napkin — glanced 
evasively  at  the  side-face  of  his  questioner, 
and  said, — "Oh  yes!  Yes,  indeed!  He's 
unmarried. — Old  bachelor  like  myself,  you 
know.  Ha!  Ha!" 

"  So  he  's  not  like  the  young  man  here  that 
distinguished  himself  last  night?"  said  the 
little  woman,  archly. 

The  fork  in  John's  hand,  half-lifted  to  his 
lips,  faltered  and  fell  back  toward  his  plate. 

"Why,  what's  that?"  said  John,  in  a 
strange  voice;  "I  hadn't  heard  anything 
about  it — I  mean  I  have  n't  heard  anything 
about  any  young  man.  What  was  it?  " 


74  MRS.  MILLER. 

"  Have  n't  heard  anything  about  the  elope 
ment?"  exclaimed  the  little  woman,  in  as 
tonishment. — "Why,  it's  been  the  talk  of 
the  town  all  morning.  Elopement  in  high 
life — son  of  a  grain-dealer,  name  of  Hines, 
or  Himes,  or  something,  and  a  preacher's 
daughter — Josie  somebody — did  n't  catch  her 
last  name.  Wonder  if  you  do  n't  know  the 
parties — Why,  Mr.  McKinney,  are  you  ill?" 

66  Oh,  no— not  at  all!"  said  John:  "Don't 
mention  it.  Ha — ha !  Just  eating  too  rapidly, 
that 's  all.  Go  on  with — you  were  saying  that 
Bert  and  Josie  had  really  eloped." 

"What  'Bert'?"  asked  the  little  woman 
quickly. 

"Why,  did  I  say  Bert?"  said  John,  with  a 
guilty  look.  "  I  meant  Haines,  of  course,  you 
know — Haines  and  Josie.— And  did  they  really 
elope?" 

"That's  the  report,"  answered  the  little 
woman,  as  though  deliberating  some  impor 
tant  evidence;  "and  they  say,  too,  that  the 
plot  of  the  runaway  was  quite  ingenious.  It 
seems  the  young  lovers  were  assisted  in  their 
flight  by  some  old  fellow — friend  of  the  young 

man's Why,  Mr.  McKinney,  you  are  ill, 

surely?" 

John's  face  was  ashen. 

"No — no!"   he  gasped,  painfully:    "Go 


MRS.  MILLER.  75 

on — go  on !  Tell  me  more  about  the — the — 
the  old  fellow — the  old  reprobate !  And  is  he 
still  at  large?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  womon,  anxiously 
regarding  the  strange  demeanor  of  her  com 
panion.  "They  say,  though,  that  the  law  can 
do  nothing  with  him,  and  that  this  fact  only 
intensifies  the  agony  of  the  broken-hearted 
parents — for  it  seems  they  have,  till  now,  re 
garded  him  both  as  a  gentleman  and  family 
friend  in  whom  " — 

"  I  really  am  ill,"  moaned  John,  waveringly 
rising  to  his  feet ;  "  but  I  beg  you  not  to  be 
alarmed.  Tell  your  little  boy  to  come  to  my 
room,  where  I  will  retire  at  once,  if  you '11 
excuse  me,  and  send  for  my  physician.  It  is 
simply  a  nervous  attack.  I  am  often  troubled 
so ;  and  only  perfect  quiet  and  seclusion  re 
stores  me.  You  have  done  me  a  great  honor, 
Mrs." — ("Mrs. — Miller,"  sighed  the  sympa 
thetic  little  woman) — "  Mrs.  Miller, — and  1 
thank  you  more  than  I  have  words  to  express." 
He  bowed  limply,  turned  through  a  side  door 
opening  on  a  stair,  and  tottered  to  his  room. 

During  the  three  weeks'  illness  through 
which  he  passed,  John  had  every  attention — 
much  more,  indeed,  than  he  had  conscious 
ness  to  appreciate.  For  the  most  part  his 


76  MRS.  MILLER. 

mind  wandered,  and  he  talked  of  curious 
things,  and  laughed  hysterically,  and  sere 
naded  mermaids  that  dwelt  in  grassy  seas  of 
dew,  and  were  bald-headed  like  himself.  He 
played  upon  a  four  teen-jointed  flute  of  solid 
gold,  with  diamond  holes,  and  keys  carved 
out  of  thawless  ice.  His  old  father  came  at 
first  to  take  him  home ;  but  he  could  not  be 
moved,  the  doctor  said. 

Two  weeks  of  John's  illness  had  worn  away, 
when  a  very  serious  looking  young  man,  in  a 
traveling  duster,  and  a  high  hat,  came  up  the 
stairs  to  see  him.  A  handsome  young  lady 
was  clinging  to  his  arm.  It  was  Bert  and 
Josie.  She  had  guessed  the  very  date  of  their 
forgiveness.  John  wakened  even  clearer  in 
mind  than  usual  that  afternoon.  He  recog 
nized  his  old  chum  at  a  glance,  and  Josie — 
now  Bert's  wife.  Yes,  he  comprehended  that. 
He  was  holding  a  hand  of  each  when  another 
figure  entered.  His  thin,  white  fingers  loos 
ened  their  clasp,  and  he  held  a  hand  toward 
the  new  comer.  "Here,"  he  said,  "  is  my  best 
friend  in  the  world — Bert,  you  and  Josie  will 
love  her,  I  know ;  for  this  is  Mrs. — Mrs." — 
"Mrs.  Miller,"  said  the  radiant  little  woman.— 
"Yes, — Mrs.  Miller,"  said  John,  very  proudly. 


of 


THE   TREE-TOAD. 

W'^CURIOUS-LIKE,"  said  the  tree-toad, 
^>^**^  "  I  've  twittered  fer  rain  all  day; 

And  I  got  up  soon, 

And  I  hollered  till  noon — 
But  the  sun,  hit  blazed  away, 

Till  I  jest  clumb  down  in  a  crawfish -hole, 

Weary  at  heart,  and  sick  at  soul! 

"  Dozed  away  fer  an  hour, 

And  I  tackled  the  thing  agin; 

And  I  sung,  and  sung, 

Till  I  knowed  my  lung 
Was  jest  about  give  in; 

And  then,  thinks  I,  ef  hit  do  n't  rain  nowv 

There  're  nothin'  in  singin',  anyhow! 

"Once  in  awhile  some 

Would  come  a  drivin'  past; 

And  he  'd  hear  my  cry, 

And  stop  and  sigh — 
Till  I  jest  laid  back,  at  last, 

And  I  hollered  rain  till  I  thought  my  th'oat 

Would  bust  right  open  at  ever'  note! 

"But  \fetclied\ux\  O  I  fetched  her!— 
'Cause  a  little  while  ago, 
As  I  kindo'  set, 
With  one  eye  shet, 
And  a-singin'  soft  and  low, 

A  voice  drapped  down  on  my  fevered  brain, 
Sayin',— ' Ef  you  '11  jest  hush  I  '11  rain!*" 
(79) 


A   WORN-OUT  PENCIL. 

ELLAD AY ! 

Here  I  lay 

You  at  rest — all  worn  away, 

O  my  pencil,  to  the  tip 

Of  our  old  companionship! 

Memory 

Sighs  to  see 

What  you  are,  and  used  to  be, 

Looking  backward  to  the  time 

When  you  wrote  your  earliest  rhyme!** 

When  I  sat 

Filing  at 

Your  first  point,  and  dreaming  that 

Your  initial  song  should  be 

Worthy  of  posterity. 

With  regret 

I  forget 

If  the  song  be  living  yet, 

Yet  remember,  vaguely  now, 

It  was  honest,  anyhow. 

You  have  brought 

Me  a  thought — 

Truer  yet  was  never  taught,— 

That  the  silent  song  is  best, 

And  *h.e  unsung  worthiest. 
(80* 


A    WORN-OUT    PENCIL.  8l 

So  if  I, 

When  I  die, 

May  as  uncomplainingly 

Drop  aside  as  now  you  do, 

Write  of  me,  as  I  of  you:— 

Here  lies  one 

Who  begun 

Life  a-singing,  heard  of  none; 
And  he  died,  satisfied, 
With  his  dead  songs  by  his  side. 

6 


THE   STEPMOTHER. 

"lUIRST  she  come  to  our  house, 
£/        Tommy  run  and  hid; 

And  Emily  and  Bob  and  me 

We  cried  jus'  like  we  did 
When  Mother  died, — and  we  all  said 
'At  we  all  wisht  'at  we  was  dead! 

And  Nurse  she  could  n't  stop  us, 
And  Pa  he  tried  and  tried,— 

We  sobbed  and  shook  and  would  n't  look, 
But  only  cried  and  cried; 

And  nen  someone — we  could  n't  jus* 

Tell  who — was  cryin'  same  as  us! 

Our  Stepmother!  Yes,  it  was  her, 

Her  arms  around  us  all — 
'Cause  Tom  slid  down  the  bannister 

And  peeked  in  from  the  hall. — 
And  we  all  love  her,  too,  because 
She 's  purt  nigh  good  as  Mother  was! 


THE  RAIN. 

i. 
HE  RAIN!  the  rain!  the  rain! 

It  gushed  from  the  skies  and  streamed 
Like  awful  tears;  and  the  sick  man  thought 

How  pitiful  it  seemed! 
And  he  turned  his  face  away, 

And  stared  at  the  wall  again, 
His  hopes  nigh  dead  and  his  heart  worn  out. 

O  the  rain!  the  rain!  the  rain! 

n. 
The  rain!  the  rain!  the  rain! 

And  the  broad  stream  brimmed  the  shores; 
And  ever  the  river  crept  over  the  reeds 

And  the  roots  of  the  sycamores: 
A  corpse  swirled  by  in  a  drift 

Where  the  boat  had  snapt  its  chain — 
And  a  hoarse-voiced  mother  shrieked  and  raved. 

O  the  rain!  the  rain!  the  rain! 

in. 

The  rain!  the  rain!  the  rain  I— 
Pouring,  with  never  a  pause, 

Over  the  fields  and  the  green  byways- 
How  beautiful  it  was! 

And  the  new-made  man  and  wife 
Stood  at  the  window-pane 

Like  two  glad  children  kept  from  school^— 
O  the  rain!  the  rain!  the  rain! 


"i 


THE   LEGEND   GLORIFIED. 

DEEM  that  God  is  not  disquieted"— 
This  in  a  mighty  poet's  rhymes  I  read; 
And  blazoned  so  forever  doth  abide 
Within  my  soul  the  legend  glorified. 

Though  awful  tempests  thunder  overhead, 
I  deem  that  God  is  not  disquieted, — 
The  faith  that  trembles  somewhat  yet  is  sure 
Through  storm  and  darkness  of  a  way  secure. 

Bleak  winters,  when  the  naked  spirit  hears 

The  break  of  hearts,  through  stinging  sleet  of  tears, 

I  deem  that  God  is  not  disquieted; 

Against  all  stresses  am  I  clothed  and  fed. 

Nay,  even  with  fixed  eyes  and  broken  breath, 
My  feet  dip  down  into  the  tides  of  death, 
Nor  any  friend  be  left,  nor  prayer  be  said, 
I  deem  that  God  is  not  disquieted. 


WANT  TO  BE  WHUR   MOTHER  IS. 

J  \\/ANT  TO  BE  whur  mother  is!    Want  to  be  whur 

mother  is!" 

Jeemses  Rivers!  wo  n't  some  one  ever  shet  that  howl  o'  his? 
That-air  yellin'  drives  me  wild! 
Cain  't  none  of  ye  stop  the  child? 
Want  yer  Daddy?    "  Naw."    Gee  whizz! 
"  Want  to  be  whur  mother  is! " 

"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is!  Want  to  be  whur  mother  is!" 
Coax  him,  Sairy!    Mary,  sing  somepin  fer  him!   Lift  him, 

Liz- 
Bang  the  clock-bell  with  the  key— 
Er  the  meat-ax !    Gee-mun-nee! 
Listen  to  them  lungs  o'  his! 
"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is!" 

"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !  Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !" 
Preacher  guess  '11  pound  all  night  on  that  old  pulpit  o'  his; 

'Pears  to  me  some  wimmin  jest 

Shows  religious  interest 

Mostly  'fore  their  fambly  's  riz! 
"  Want  to  be  whur  mother  is!" 

#**«*»** 

"Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !  Want  to  be  whur  mother  is !" 
Nights  like  these  and  whipperwills  allus  brings  that  voice 
of  his! 

Sairy;  Mary;  'Lizabeth; 

Do  n't  set  there  and  ketch  yer  death 

In  the  dew— er  rheumatiz — 

Want  to  be  whur  mother  is? 

(85) 


OLD   MAN'S  NURSERY   RHYME. 

i. 

IN  THE  jolly  winters 
Of  the  long-ago, 
It  was  not  so  cold  as  now — 

O!  No!  No! 
Then,  as  I  remember, 

Snowballs,  to  eat, 
Were  as  good  as  apples  now, 
And  every  bit  as  sweet! 

II. 

In  the  jolly  winters 

Of  the  dead-and-gone, 
Bub  was  warm  as  summer, 

With  his  red  mitts  on, — 
Just  in  his  little  waist- 

And -pants  all  together, 
Who  ever  heard  him  growl 

About  cold  weather? 

in. 

In  the  jolly  winters  of  the  long-ago—* 
Was  it  half  so  cold  as  now? 

O!  No!  No! 
Who  caught  his  death  o'  cold, 

Making  prints  of  men 
Flat-backed  in  snow  that  now 's 

Twice  as  cold  again? 


OLD  MAN'S  NURSERY  RHYME 


IV. 

In  the  jolly  winters 

Of  the  dead-and-gone, 
Startin'  out  rabbit-hunting 

Early  as  the  dawn, — 
Who  ever  froze  his  fingers, 

Ears,  heels,  or  toes, — 
Or'd  a  cared  if  he  had? 

Nobody  knows! 

v. 

Nights  by  the  kitchen-stove, 

Shelling  white  and  red 
Corn  in  the  skillet,  and 

Sleepin'  four  abed! 
Ah!  the  jolly  winters 

Of  the  long-ago! 
We  were  not  so  old  as  now— 

Oi  No!  No! 


THREE   DEAD   FRIENDS. 

>T  LWAYS  suddenly  they  are  gone — 
'JL  \       The  friends  we  trusted  and  held  secure—* 

Suddenly  we  are  gazing  on, 
Not  a  smiling  face,  but  the  marble-pure 
Dead  mask  of  a  face  that  nevermore 
To  a  smile  of  ours  will  make  reply — 

The  lips  close-locked  as  the  eyelids  are.-— 
Gone — swift  as  the  flash  of  the  molten  ore 
A  meteor  pours  through  a  midnight  sky, 
Leaving  it  blind  of  a  single  star. 

Tell  us,  O  Death,  Remorseless  Might! 

What  is  this  old,  unescapable  ire 
You  wreak  on  us? — from  the  birth  of  light 

Till  the  world  be  charred  to  a  core  of  fire! 
We  do  no  evil  thing  to  you — 

We  seek  to  evade  you — that  is  ail- 
That  is  your  will — you  will  not  be  known 
Of  men.     What,  then,  would  you  have  us  do?— • 

Cringe,  and  wait  till  your  vengeance  fall, 

And  your  graves  be  fed,  and  the  trumpet  blown? 

Ifou  desire  no  friends;  but  -we — O  we 

Need  them  so,  as  we  falter  here, 
Fumbling  through  each  new  vacancy, 

As  each  is  stricken  that  we  hold  dear. 
One  you  struck  but  a  year  ago; 

And  one  not  a  month  ago;  and  one— 

(God's  vast  pity!) — and  one  lies  now 
Where  the  widow  wails,  in  her  nameless  woe, 
And  the  soldiers  pace,  with  the  sword  and  gun, 
Where  the  comrade  sleeps,  with  the  laureled  brow. 
•(88) 


THREE   DEAD    FRIENDS.  89 

And  what  did  the  first? — that  wayward  soul, 

Clothed  of  sorrow,  yet  nude  of  sin, 
And  with  all  hearts  bowed  in  the  strange  control 

Of  the  heavenly  voice  of  his  violin. 
Why,  it  was  music  the  way  he  stood, 

So  grand  was  the  poise  of  the  head  and  so 

Full  was  the  figure  of  majesty! — 
One  heard  with  the  eyes,  as  a  deaf  man  would, 

And  with  all  sense  brimmed  to  the  overflow 
With  tears  of  anguish  and  ecstasy. 

And  what  did  the  girl,  with  the  great  warm  light 

Of  genius  sunning  her  eyes  of  blue, 
With  her  heart  so  pure,  and  her  soul  so  white — 

What,  O  Death,  did  she  do  to  you? 
Through  field  and  wood  as  a  child  she  strayed, 

As  Nature,  the  dear  sweet  mother  led; 

While  from  her  canvas,  mirrored  back, 
Glimmered  the  stream  through  the  everglade 

Where  the  grapevine  trailed  from  tne  trees  to  wed 
Its  likeness  of  emerald,  blue  and  black. 

And  what  did  he,  who,  the  last  of  these, 

Faced  you,  with  never  a  fear,  O  Death? 
Did  you  hate  him  that  he  loved  the  breeze, 

And  the  morning  dews,  and  the  rose's  breath? 
Did  you  hate  him  that  he  answered  not 

Your  hate  again — but  turned,  instead, 

His  only  hate  on  his  country's  wrongs? 
Well — you  possess  him,  dead! — but  what 

Of  the  good  he  wrought?     With  laureled  head 
He  bides  with  us  in  his  deeds  and  songs. 

Laureled,  first,  that  he  bravely  fought, 

And  forged  a  way  to  our  flag's  release; 
Laureled,  next — for  the  harp  he  taught 

To  wake  glad  songs  in  the  days  of  peace- 
Songs  of  the  woodland  haunts  he  held 


9O  THREE    DEAD    FRIENDS. 

As  close  in  his  love  as  they  held  their  bloom 
In  their  inmost  bosoms  of  leaf  and  vine- 
Songs  that  echoed,  and  pulsed  and  welled 
Through  the  town's  pent  streets,  and  the  sick  child's 

room, 
Pure  as  a  shower  in  soft  sunshine. 

Claim  them,  Death;  yet  their  fame  endures, 

What  friend  next  will  you  rend  from  us 
In  that  cold,  pitiless  way  of  yours, 

And  leave  us  a  grief  more  dolorous? 
Speak  to  us!— tell  us,  O  Dreadful  Power!— 

Are  we  to  have  not  a  lone  friend  left? — 

Since,  frozen,  sodden,  or  green  the  sod, — 
In  every  second  of  every  hour, 

Some  one,  Death,  you  have  left  thus  bereft, 
Half  inaudibly  shrieks  to  God, 


IN  BOHEMIA. 

A!     MY  DEAR!     I 'm  back  again— 
,  Vendor  of  Bohemia's  wares! 
>rdy!     How  it  pants  a  man 
Climbing  up  those  awful  stairs! 

Well,  I  Ve  made  the  dealer  say 
Your  sketch  might  sell,  anyway! 
And  I  've  made  a  publisher 
Hear  my  poem,  Kate,  my  dear. 

In  Bohemia,  Kate,  my  dear — 

Lodgers  in  a  musty  flat 
On  the  top  floor — living  here 
Neighborless,  and  used  to  that,— 
Like  a  nest  beneath  the  eaves, 
So  our  little  home  receives 
Only  guests  of  chirping  cheer— 
We  '11  be  happy,  Kate,  my  dear! 

Under  your  north-light  there,  you 

At  your  easel,  with  a  stain 
On  your  nose  of  Prussian  blue, 
Paint  your  bits  of  shine  and  rain; 
With  my  feet  thrown  up  at  will 
O'er  my  littered  window-sill, 
I  write  rhymes  that  ring  as  clear 
As  your  laughter,  Kate,  my  dear. 

Puff  my  pipe,  and  stroke  my  hair- 
Bite  my  pencil-tip  and  gaze 

At  you,  mutely  mooning  there 
O'er  your  "  Aprils  "  and  your  "  Mays! ' 
(90 


92  IN   BOHEMIA. 

Equal  inspiration  in 

Dimples  of  your  cheek  and  chin, 

And  the  golden  atmosphere 

Of  your  paintings,  Kate,  my  dear! 

Trying!    Yes,  at  times  it  is, 

To  clink  happy  rhymes,  and  fling 
On  the  canvas  scenes  of  bliss, 
When  we  are  half  famishing! — 

When  your  "jersey"  rips  in  spots, 
And  your  hat's  "  forget-me-nots" 
Have  grown  tousled,  old  and  sere— 
It  is  trying,  Kate,  my  dear! 

But — as  sure — some  picture  sells, 

And — sometimes — the  poetry- 
Bless  us!     How  the  parrot  yells 
His  acclaims  at  you  and  me! 

How  we  revel  then  in  scenes 
Of  high  banqueting! — sardines- 
Salads — olives — and  a  sheer 
Pint  of  sherry,  Kate,  my  dear! 

Even  now  I  cross  your  palm, 

With  this  great  round  world  of  gold!— » 
« Talking  wild?"     Perhaps  I  am— 
Then,  this  little  five-year-old! — 
Call  it  anything  you  will, 
So  it  lifts  your  face  until 
I  may  kiss  away  that  tear 
Ere  it  drowns  me,  Kate,  my  dear. 


IN  THE   DARK. 


o 


IN  THE  depths  of  midnight 

What  fancies  haunt  the  brain! 
When  even  the  sigh  of  the  sleeper 
Sounds  like  a  sob  of  pain. 

A  sense  of  awe  and  of  wonder 

I  may  never  well  define, — 
For  the  thoughts  that  come  in  the  shadows 

Never  come  in  the  shine. 

The  old  clock  down  in  the  parlor 
Like  a  sleepless  mourner  grieves, 

And  the  seconds  drip  in  the  silence 
As  the  rain  drips  from  the  eaves. 

And  I  think  of  the  hands  that  signal 

The  hours  there  in  the  gloom, 
And  wonder  what  angel  watchers 

Wait  in  the  darkened  room. 

And  I  think  of  the  smiling  faces 

That  used  to  watch  and  wait, 
Till  the  click  of  the  clock  was  answered 

By  the  click  of  the  opening  gate.— 

They  are  not  there  now  in  the  evening 

Morning  or  noon — not  there; 
Yet  I  know  that  they  keep  their  vigil, 

And  wait  for  me  Somewhere. 


WET  WEATHER  TALK. 

'T  AIN'T  no  use  to  grumble  and  complain; 
.     It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice: 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain, 
W'y,  rain  's  my  choice. 

Men  giner'ly,  to  all  intents — 

Although  they  're  ap'  to  grumble  some- 
Puts  most  their  trust  in  Providence, 
And  takes  things  as  they  come;— 
That  is,  the  commonality 
Of  men  that 's  lived  as  long  as  me, 
Has  watched  the  world  enough  to  learn 
They  're  not  the  boss  of  the  concern. 

With  some,  of  course,  it 's  different — 

I  've  seed  young  men  that  knowed  it  all, 
And  did  n't  like  the  way  things  went 
On  this  terrestial  ball! 

But,  all  the  same,  the  rain  some  way 
Rained  jest  as  hard  on  picnic-day; 
Er  when  they  railly  wanted  it, 
It  maybe  would  n't  rain  a  bit! 

In  this  existence,  dry  and  wet 

Will  overtake  the  best  of  men — 
Some  little  skift  o'  clouds  '11  shet 
The  sun  off  now  and  then ; 

But  maybe,  while  you  're  wondern'  who 
You  Ve  fool-like  lent  your  umbrell'  to, 
And  -want  it — out 'II  pop  the  sun, 
And  you  '11  be  glad  you  ain't  got  none! 


WET   WEATHER   TALK.  95 

It  aggervates  the  farmers,  too — 

They 's  too  much  wet,  er  too  much  sun, 
Er  work,  er  waiting  round  to  do 
Before  the  plowin"s  done; 

And  maybe,  like  as  not,  the  wheat, 
Jest  as  it 's  lookin'  hard  to  beat, 
Will  ketch  the  storm — and  jest  about 
The  time  the  corn  's  a-jintin'  out! 

These  here  cy-clories  a-foolin'  round — 

And  back'ard  crops — and  wind  and  rain, 
And  yit  the  corn  that 's  wallered  down 
May  elbow  up  again ! 
They  ain't  no  sense,  as  I  kin  see, 
In  mortals,  sich  as  you  and  me, 
A-faultin'  Nature's  wise  intents, 
And  lockin'  horns  with  Providence! 

It  ain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complain; 
It 's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice: 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rai»s 
W'y,  rain  's  my  choice. 


WHERE   SHALL  WE   LAND. 

**  Where  shall  ive  land  you,  sweet?" — Swinburne 

LL  LISTLESSLY  we  float 
Out  seaward  in  the  boat 
That  beareth  Love. 
Our  sails  of  purest  snow 
Bend  to  the  blue  below 

And  to  the  blue  above. 
Where  shall  we  land? 

We  drift  upon  a  tide 
Shoreless  on  every  side, 

Save  where  the  eye 
Of  Fancy  sweeps  far  lands 
Shelved  slopingly  with  sands 

Of  gold  and  porphyry, 
Where  shall  we  land? 

The  fairy  isles  we  see, 
Loom  up  so  mistily — 

So  vaguely  fair, 
We  do  not  care  to  break 
Fresh  bubbles  in  our  wake 

To  bend  our  course  for  there, 
Where  shall  we  land? 

The  warm  winds  of  the  deep 
Have  lulled  our  sails  to  sleep, 

And  so  we  glide 
Careless  of  wave  or  wind, 
Or  change  of  any  kind, 
Or  turn  of  any  tide. 

Where  shall  we  land? 
(96) 


WHERE    SHALL    WE    LAND. 

We  droop  our  dreamy  eyes 
Where  our  reflection  lies 

Steeped  in  the  sea, 
And,  in  an  endless  fit 
Of  languor,  smile  on  it 

And  its  sweet  mimicry. 
Where  shall  we  land? 

"Where  shall  we  land?"  God's  grace! 
I  know  not  any  place 
So  fair  as  this — 
Swung  here  between  the  blue 
Of  sea  and  sky,  with  you 
To  ask  me,  with  a  kiss, 
"Where  shall  we  land?" 


Cfyecker-Pfager 
of 


THE  CHAMPION  CHECKER-PLAYER  OF 
AMERIKY. 

course  as  fur  as  Checker-play  in 's  con- 
cerned,  you  can't  jest  adzackly  claim 
'at  lots  makes  fortunes  and  lots  gits  bu'sted  at  it 
— but  still,  it's  on'y  simple  jestice  to  acknowl 
edge  'at  there' re  absolute  p'ints  in  the  game  'at 
takes  scientific  principles  to  figger  out,  and  a 
mighty  level-headed  feller  to  <&onstrate,  don't 
you  understand ! 

Checkers  is  a'  old  enough  game,  ef  age  is  any 
rickommendation ;  and  it's  a'  evident  fact,  too, 
'at  "the  tooth  of  time,"  as  the  feller  says,  which 
fer  the  last  six  thousand  years  has  gained  some 
reputation  fer  a-eatin'  up  things  in  giner'l,  don't 
'pear  to  'a'  gnawed  much  of  a  hole  in  Checkers 
— jedgin'  from  the  checker-board  of  to-day  and 
the  ones  'at  they're  uccasionally  shovellin'  out 
at  Pomp'y-i,  er  whatever  its  name  is.  Turned 
up  a  checker-board  there  not  long  ago,  I  wuz 
readin'  'bout,  'at  still  had  the  spots  on — as 
plain  and  fresh  as  the  modern  white-pine  board 
o'  our'n,  squared  off  with  pencil-marks  and 
(101) 


IO2  CHAMPION   CHECKER-PLAYER. 

pokeberry-juice.  These  is  facts  'at  history  her 
self  has  dug  out,  and  of  course  it  ain't  fer  me 
ner  you  to  turn  our  nose  up  at  Checkers,  whuther 
we  ever  tamper  with  the  fool-game  er  not.  Fur's 
that's  concerned,  I  don't  p'tend  to  be  no  check 
er-player  myse' '/, — but  I  know'd  a  feller  onc't 
'at  could  play,  and  sorto'  made  a  business  of  it; 
and  that  man,  in  my  opinion,  was  a  geenyus! 
Name  wuz  Wesley  Cotterl — John  Wesley  Cot- 
terl — jest  plain  Wes,  as  us  fellers  round  the 
Shoe-Shop  ust  to  call  him ;  ust  to  allus  make 
the  Shoe-Shop  his  headquarters-like;  and,  rain 
er  shine,  wet  er  dry,  you'd  allus  find  Wes  on 
hands,  ready  to  banter  some  feller  fer  a  game, 
er  jest  a-settin'  humped  up  there  over  the  check 
er-board  all  alone,  a-cipher'n'  out  some  new 
move  er  'nuther,  and  whistlin'  low  and  solem' 
to  hisse'f-like  and  a-payin'  no  attention  to  no 
body. 

And  /'//tell  you,  Wes  Cotterl  wuz  no  man's 
fool,  as  sly  as  you  keep  it!  He  wuz  a  deep 
thinker,  Wes  wuz;  and  ef  he'd  'a'  jest  turned 
that  mind  o'  his  loose  on  preackin' ,  fer  instunce, 
and  the  'terpertation  o'  the  Bible,  don't  you 
know,  Wes  'ud  'a'  worked  p'ints  out  o'  there 
'at  nolivin'  expounderers  ever  got  in  gunshot  of ! 

But  Wes  he  didn't  'pear  to  be  cut  out  fer 
nothin'  much  but  jest  Checker-play  in'.  Oh,  of 


CHAMPION   CHECKER-PLAYER.  1 03 

course,  he  could  knock  round  his  own  woodpile 
some,  and  garden  a  little,  more  er  less;  and  the 
neighbers  ust  to  find  Wes  purty  handy  'bout 
trimmin'  fruit-trees,  you  understand,  and  work- 
in'  in  among  the  worms  and  cattapillers  in  the 
vines  and  shrubbery,  and  the  like.  And  hand- 
lin'  bees! — They  wuzn't  no  man  under  the 
heavens  'at  knowed  more  'bout  handlin'  bees'n 
Wes  Cotterl! — "Settlin"'  the  blame'  things 
when  they  wuz  a-swarmin' ;  and  a-robbin'  hives, 
and  all  sich  fool-resks.  W'y,  I've  saw  Wes  Cot 
terl,  'fore  now,  when  a  swarm  of  bees  'ud  settle 
in  a'  orchard, — like  they  will  sometimes,  you 
know, — I've  saw  Wes  Cotterl  jest  roll  up  his 
shirt-sleeves  and  bend  down  a'  apple  tree  limb 
'at  wuz  jest  kivvered  with  the  pesky  things,  and 
scrape  'em  back  into  the  hive  with  his  naked 
hands,  by  the  quart  and  gallon,  and  never  git  a 
scratch !  You  couldn't  hire  a  bee  to  sting  Wes 
Cotterl!  But  lazy? — I  think  that  man  had 
railly  ort  to  'a'  been  a'  Injun !  He  wuz  the  fust 
and  on'y  man  'at  ever  I  laid  eyes  on  'at  wuz  too 
lazy  to  drap  a  checker-man  to  p'int  out  the 
right  road  fer  a  feller  'at  ast  him  onc't  the  way 
to  Burke's  Mill;  and  Wes,  'ithout  ever  a-liftin' 
eye  er  finger,  jest  sorto'  crooked  out  that  mouth 
o'  his'n  in  the  direction  the  feller  wanted,  and 
says:  "H-yonder!"  and  went  on  with  his  whist- 


CHAMPION    CHECKER-PJLAYER. 

lin'.     But  all  this  hain't  Checkers,  and  that's 
what  I  started  out  to  tell  ye. 

Wes  had  a  way  o'  jest  natchurly  a-cleanin* 
out  anybody  and  ever 'body  'at  'ud  he'p 
hold  up  a  checker-board!  Wes  wuzn't  what 
you'd  call  a  lively  player  at  all,  ner  a  com- 
petiter  'at  talked  much  'crost  the  board  er  made 
much  furse  over  a  game  whilse  he  wuz  a-play- 
in'.  He  had  his  faults,  o'  course,  and  would 
take  back  moves  'casion'ly,  er  inch  up  on  you 
ef  you  didn't  watch  him,  mebby.  But,  as  a 
rule,  Wes  had  the  insight  to  grasp  the  idy  of 
whoever  wuz  a-playin'  ag'in'  him,  and  his  style 
o'  game,  you  understand,  and  wuz  on  the  look 
out  continual' ;  and  under  sich  circumstances 
could  play  as  honest  a  game  o'  Checkers  as  the 
babe  unborn. 

One  thing  in  Wes' s  favor  allus  wuz  the  feller's 
temper. — Nothin'  'peared  to  aggervate  Wes, 
and  nothin'  on  earth  could  break  his  slow  and 
lazy  way  o'  takin'  his  own  time  fer  ever 'thing. 
You  jest  couldn't  crowd  Wes  er  git  him  rattled 
anyway. — Jest  'peared  to  have  one  fixed  princi 
ple,  and  that  wuz  to  take  plenty  o'  time,  and 
never  make  no  move  'ithout  a-ciphern'n'  ahead 
on  the  prob'ble  consequences,  don't  you  under 
stand  !  "Be  shore  you're  right, ' '  Wes  'ud  say, 
a-lettin'  up  fer  a  second  on  that  low  and  sorry- 


CHAMPION    CHECKER-PLAYER.  105 

like  little  wind-through-the-keyhole  whistle  o' 
his,  and  a-nosin'  out  a  place  whur  he  could  swap 
one  man  fer  two. — "Be  shore  you're  right" — 
and  somep 'n '  after  this  style  wuz  Wes ' s  way :  "Be 
shore  you're  right" — (whistling  a  long,  lone 
some  bar  of  "Barbara  Allen") — "and  then" — 
(another  long,  retarded  bar) — "go  ahead!" — 
and  by  the  time  the  feller  'ud  git  through  with  his 
whistlin',  and  a-stoppin'  and  a-startin'  in  ag'in, 
he'd  be  about  three  men  ahead  to  your  one. 
And  then  he'd  jest  go  on  with  his  whistlin' 
'sef  nothin'  had  happened,  and  mebby  you 
a-jest  a-rearin'  and  a-callin'  him  all  the  mean, 
outlandish,  ornry  names  'at  you  could  lay 
tongue  to. 

But  Wes's  good  nature,  I  reckon,  was  the 
thing  'at  he'ped  him  out  as  much  as  any  other 
p'ints  the  feller  had.  And  Wes  'ud  allus  win, 
in  the  long  run! — I  don't  keer  who  played 
ag'inst  him!  It  was  on'y  a  question  o'  time 
with  Wes  o'  waxin'  it  to  the  best  of  'em.  Lots 
o'  players  has  tackled  Wes,  and  right  at  the 
start  'ud  mebby  give  him  trouble, — but  in  the 
long  run,  now  mind  ye — in  the  long  run,  no 
mortal  man,  I  reckon,  had  any  business  o'  rub- 
bin'  knees  with  Wes  Cotterl  under  no  airthly 
checker-board  in  all  this  vale  o'  tears! 

I  mind  onc't  th'   come  along  a  high-toned 


106  CHAMPION   CHECKER-PLAYER. 

feller  from  in  around  In'i'nop'lus  somers. — Wuz 
a  lawyer,  er  some  p ' fessional  kind  o'  man. 
Had  a  big  yaller,  luther-kivvered  book  under 
his  arm,  and  a  bunch  o'  these-'ere  bigen^^/op's 
and  a  loto'  suppeenies  stickin'  out  o'  his  breast 
pocket.  Mighty  slick-lookin'  feller  he  vvuz ; 
wore  a  stove-pipe  hat,  sorto'  set  'way  back  on 
his  head — so's  to  show  off  his  Giner'l  Jackson 
forr'ed,  don't  you  know!  Well-sir,  this  feller 
struck  the  place,  on  some  business  er  other,  and 
then  missed  the  hack  'at  ort  to  'a'  tuk  him  out 
o'  here  sooner'n  it  did  take  him  out! — And 
whilse  he  wuz  a-loafm'  round,  sorto'  lonesome — 
like  a  feller  allus  is  in  a  strange  place,  you  know 
— he  kindo'  drapped  in  on  our  crowd  at  the 
Shoe-Shop,  ostenchably  to  git  a  boot-strop 
stitched  on,  but  /  knowed,  the  minute  he  set 
foot  in  the  door,  'at  that  feller  wanted  company 
wuss'n  cobblin' . 

Well,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  there  set 
Wes,  as  usual,  with  the  checker-board  in  his 
lap,  a-playin'  all  by  hisse'f,  and  a-whistlin'  so 
low  and  solem'-like  and  sad  it  railly  made  the 
crowd  seem  like  a  religious  getherun'  o'  some 
kind  er  other,  we  wuz  all  so  quiet  and  still-like, 
as  the  man  come  in. 

Well,  the  stranger  stated  his  business,  set 
down,  tuk  off  his  boot,  and  set  there  nussin'  his 


CHAMPION   CHECKER-PLAYER. 

foot  and  talkin'  weather  fer  ten  minutes,  I 
reckon,  'fore  he  ever  'peared  to  notice  Wes  at 
all.  We  wuz  all  back'ard,  anyhow,  'bout 
talkin'  much;  besides,  we  knowed,  long  afore 
he  come  in,  all  about  how  hot  the  weather  wuz, 
and  the  pore  chance  there  wuz  o'  rain,  and  all 
that ;  and  so  the  subject  had  purty  well  died  out, 
when  jest  then  the  feller's  eyes  struck  Wes  and 
the  checker-board, — and  I'll  never  fergit  the 
warm,  salvation  smile  'at  flashed  over  him  'at 
the  promisin'  discovery.  "What!"  says  he, 
a-grinnin'  like  a'  angel  and  a-edgin'  his  cheer 
to'rds  Wes,  "have  we  a  checker-board  and 
checkers  here?" 

"We  hev,"  says  I,  knowin'  'at  Wes  wouldn't 
let  go  'o  that  whistle  long  enough  to  answer — 
more'n  to  mebby  nod  his  head. 

"And  who  is  your  best  player?"  says  the 
feller,  kindo'  pitiful-like,  with  another  inquirin' 
look  atWes. 

"Him,"  says  I,  a-pokin'  Wes  with  a  peg- 
float.  But  Wes  on'y  spit  kindo'  absent-like, 
and  went  on  with  his  whistlin'. 

"Much  of  a  player,  is  he?"  says  the  ;feller, 
with  a  sorto'  doubtful  smile  at  Wes  ag'in. 

"Plays  a  purty  good  hick'ry,"  says  I, 
a-pokin'  Wes  ag'in.  "Wes,"  says  I,  "here's 
a  gentleman  'at  'ud  mebby  like  to  take  a  hand 


IO8  CHAMPION   CHECKER-PLAYER. 

with  you  there,  and  give  you  a  few  idys," 
says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  the  stranger,  eager-like,  a-settin* 
his  plug-hat  keerful'  up  in  the  empty  shelvin', 
and  a-rubbin'  his  hands  and  smilin'  as  confident- 
like  as  old  Hoyle  hisse'f, — "Yes,  indeed,  I'd 
be  glad  to  give  the  gentleman"  (meanin'  Wes) 
"a'  idy  er  two  about  Checkers — ef  he'd  jest  as 
lief, — 'cause  I  reckon  ef  there're  any  one  thing 
'at  I  do  know  more  about  'an  another,  it's 
Checkers,"  says  he;  "and  there're  no  game  'at 
delights  me  more — pervidin\  o'  course,  I  find 
a  competiter  'at  kin  make  it  anyways  in 
ters/in'." 

"Got  much  of  a  rickord  on  Checkers?" 
says  I. 

"Well,"  says  the  feller,  "I  don't  like  to  brag, 
but  I've  never  ben  beat — in  any  legitimut  con 
test,"  says  he,  "and  I've  played  more'n  one  o' 
them,"  he  says,  "here  and  there  round  the 
country.  Of  course,  your  friend  here,"  he 
went  on,  smilin'  sociable  at  Wes,  "he  II  take  it 
all  in  good  part  ef  I  should  happen  to  lead  him 
a  little — jest  as  Fd  do,"  he  says,  "ef  it  wuz 
possible  fer  him  to  lead  me." 

"  Wes,"  says  I,  "has  warmed  the  wax  in  the 
yeers  of  some  mighty  good  checker-players," 
says  I,  as  he  squared  the  board  around,  still  a- 


CHAMPION    CHECKER-PLAYER.  IOO, 

whistlin'  to  hisse'f-like,  as  the  stranger  tuk  his 
place,  a-smilin'-like  and  roachin'  back  his  hair. 

"Move,"  says  Wes. 

"No,"  says  the  feller,  with  a  polite  flourish 
of  his  hand;  "the  first  move  shall  be  your'n." 
And,  by  jucks!  fer  all  he  wouldn't  take  even 
the  advantage  of  a  starter,  he  flaxed  it  to  Wes 
the  fust  game  in  less'n  fifteen  minutes. 

"Right  shore  you've  give'  me  your  best 
player?"  he  says,  smilin'  round  at  the  crowd, 
as  Wes  set  squarin'  the  board  fer  another  game 
and  whistlin'  as  onconcerned-like  as  ef  nothin' 
had  happened  more'n  ordinary. 

"  'S  your  move,"  says  Wes,  a-squintin'  out 
into  the  game  'bout  forty  foot  from  shore,  and 
a-whistlin'  purt'  nigh  in  a  whisper. 

Well-sir,  it  'peared-like  the  feller  railly  didn't 
try  to  play;  and  you  could  see,  too,  'at  Wes 
knowed  he'd  about  met  his  match,  and  p'layed 
accordin'.  He  didn't  make  no  move  at  all  'at 
he  didn't  give  keerful  thought  to;  whilse  the 
feller — !  well,  as  I  wuz  sayin',  it  jest  'peared- 
like  Checkers  wuz  child's-play  fer  him!  Putt 
in  most  o'  the  time  'long  through  the  game 
a-sayin'  things  calkilated  to  kindo'  bore  a'  ordi 
nary  man.  But  Wes  helt  hisse'f  purty  level, 
and  didn't  show  no  signs,  and  kep'  up  his 
whistlin' ,  mighty  well — considerin'. 


IIO  CHAMPION   CHECKER-PLAYER. 

"Reckon  you  play  the  fiddle,  too,  as  well  as 
Checkers?"  says  the  feller,  laughin',  as  Wes 
come  a-whistlin'  out  of  the  little  end  of  the  sec 
ond  game  and  went  on  a-fixin'  fer  the  next 
round. 

"  'S  my  move!"  says  Wes,  'thout  seemin'  to 
notice  the  feller's  tantalizin'  words  whatsomever. 

"'L!  this  time,"  thinks  I,  "Mr.  Smarty 
from  the  metrolop'm  deestricts,  you're  liable 
to  git  waxed — shore!"  But  the  feller  didn't 
'pear  to  think  so  at  all,  and  played  right  ahead 
as  glib-like  and  keerless  as  ever — 'casion'ly 
a-throwin'  in  them  sircastic  remarks  o'  his'n, — 
'bout  bein'  "slow  and  shore"  'bout  things  in 
gineral — "Liked  to  see  that,0  he'said: — "Liked 
to  see  fellers  do  things  with  plenty  o'  delibera 
tion,  and  even  ef  a  feller  wuzn^t  much  of  a 
checker-player,  liked  to  see  him  die  slow  any 
how! — and  then  'tend  his  own  funeral,"  he 
says, — "and  march  in  the  p'session — to  his  own 
music  "  says  he. — And  jest  then  his  remarks 
wuz  brung  to  a  close  by  Wes  a-jumpin'  two  men, 
and  a-lightin  square  in  the  king-row. 
"Crown  that,"  says  Wes,  a-droppin'  back  into 
his  old  tune.  And  fer  the  rest  o'  that  game 
Wes  helt  the  feller  purty  level,  but  had  to  finally 
knock  under — but  by  jest  the  clos'test  kind  o' 
shave  o'  winnin'. 


CHAMPION    CHECKER-PLAYER.  Ill 

"They  ain't  much  use,"  says  the  feller, 
"o'  keepin'  this  thing  up — 'less  I  could  manage, 
some  way  er  other,  to  git  beat  onc't  }n  a  while!" 

"Move,"  says  Wes,  a-drappin'  back  into  the 
same  old  whistle  and  a.-settlin'  there. 

"  'Music  has  charms,'  as  the  Good  Book  tells 
us,"  says  the  feller,  kindo'  nervous-like,  and 
a-roachin'  his  hair  back  as  ef  some  sort  o' 
p'tracted  headache  wuz  a-settin'  in. 

"Never  wuz  'skunked,'  wuz  ye?"  says  Wes, 
kindo'  suddent-like,  with  a  fur-off  look  in  them 
big  white  eyes  o'  his — and  then  a-whistlin'  right 
on,  'sef  he  hadn't  said  nothin' . 

"Not muck!"  says  the  feller,  sorto'  s'prised- 
like,  as  ef  such  a'  idy  as  that  had  never  struck 
him  afore. — "Never  was  'skunked'  myse' f:  but 
I've  saw  fellers  in  my  time  'at  wuz!"  says  he. 

But  from  that  time  on  I  noticed  the  feller 
'peared  to  play  more  keerful,  and  railly  la'nched 
into  the  game  with  somepin'  like  inter'st.  Wes 
he  seemed  to  be  jest  a-limberin'-up-like ;  and- 
sir,  blame  me !  ef  he  didn't  walk  the  feller's  log 
fer  him  that  time,  'thout  no  'pearent  trouble  at 
all! 

'  'And,  now, ' '  says  Wes,  all  quiet-like,  a-squar- 
in'  the  board  fer  another'n, — "we're  kindo'  git- 
tin'  at  things  right.  Move."  And  away  went 
that  little  unconcerned  whistle  o'  his  ag'in,  and 


112  CHAMPION    CHECKER-PLAYER. 

Mr.  City  man  jest  gittin'  white  and  sweaty  too — 
he  wuz  so  nervous.  Ner  he  didn't  'pear  to  find 
much  to  laugh  at  in  the  next  game — ner  the  next 
two  games  nuther  !  Things  wuz  a-gettin'  mighty 
inter^s/in'  'bout  them  times,  and  I  guess  the 
feller  wuz  ser'ous-like  a-wakin'  up  to  the  solem' 
fact  'at  it  tuk  'bout  all  his  spare  time  to  keep 
up  his  end  o'  the  row,  and  even  that  state  o' 
'pore  satisfaction  wuz  a-creepin'  furder  and  fur- 
der  away  from  him  ever'  new  turn  he  undertook. 
Whilse  Wes  jest  'peared  to  git  more  deliber't' 
and  certain  ever'  game;  and  that  unendin'  se'f- 
satisfied  and  comfortin'  little  whistle  o'  his  never 
drapped  a  stitch,  but  toed  out  ever'  game 
alike, — to'rds  the  last,  and,  fer  the  most  part, 
disasterss  to  the  feller  'at  had  started  in  with  sich 
confidence  and  actchul  promise,  don't  you  know. 
Well-sir,  the  feller  stuck  the  whole  forenoon 
out,  and  then  the  afternoon;  and  then  knuckled 
down  to  it  'way  into  the  night — yes,  and  plum 
midnight! — And  he  buckled  into  the  thing 
bright  and  airly  next  morning  !  And-sir,  fer  two 
long  days  and  nights,  a-hardly  a-stoppin'  long 
enough  to  eat,  the  feller  stuck  it  out, — and  Wes 
a-jest  a-warpin'  it  to  him  hand-over-fist,  and 
leavin'  him  furder  behind,  ever'  game! — till 
finally,  to'rds  the  last,  the  feller  got  so  blame- 
don  worked  up  and  excited-like,  he  jes  'peared 


CHAMPION    CHECKER-PLAYER.  113 

actchully  purt'  nigh  plum  crazy  and  histurical 
as  a  woman ! 

It  wuz  a-gittin'  late  into  the  shank  of  the  sec 
ond  day,  and  the  boys  hed  jest  lit  a  candle  fer 
'em  to  finish  out  one  of  the  clost'est  games  the 
feller 'd  played  Wes  fer  some  time.  But  Wes 
wuz  jest  as  cool  and  ca'm  as  ever,  and  still 
a-whistlin'  consolin'  to  hisse'f-like,  whilse  the 
feller  jest  'peared  wore  out  and  ready  to  drap 
right  in  his  tracks  any  minute. 

"Durnyou/"  he  snarled  out  at  Wes,  "hain't 
you  never  goern  to  move  ?  ' '  And  there  set  Wes, 
a-balancin'  a  checker-man  above  the  board, 
a-studyin'  whur  to  set  it,  and  a-fillin'  in  the 
time  with  that-air  whistle. 

"Flames  and  flashes!  "  says  the  feller  ag'in, 
"will  you  ever  stop  that  death-seducin'  tune  o' 
your'n  long  enough  to  move?" — And  as  Wes 
deliber't'ly  set  his  man  down  whur  the  feller  see 
he'd  haf  to  jump  it  and  lose  two  men  and  a  king, 
Wes  wuz  a-singin',  low  and  sad-like,  as  ef  all  to 
hisse'f: 

"0  we' II  move  that  man,  and  leave  him  there. — 
Fer  the  love  of  B-a-r-b — bry  Al-len!" 

Well-sir!  the  feller  jest  jumped  to  his  feet, 
upset  the  board,  and  tore  out  o'  the  shop  stark- 
starin'  crazy — blame  ef  he  wuzn't! — 'cause 


114  CHAMPION   CHECKER-PLAYER. 

some  of  us  putt  out  after  him  and  overtook  him 
'way  beyent  the  'pike-bridge,  and  hollered  to 
him; — and  he  shuk  his  fist  at  us  and  hollered 
back  and  says,  says  he:  "Ef  you  fellers  over 
here,"  says  he,  "  '11  agree  to  muzzle  that  durn 
checker-player  o'  your'n,  I'll  bet  fifteen  hunderd 
dollars  to  fifteen  cents  'at  I  kin  beat  him  'leven 
games  out  of  ever'  dozent! — But  there're  no 
money,"  he  says,  "  'at  kin  hire  me  to  play  him 
ag'in,  on  this  aboundin'  airth,  on'y  on  them 
conditions — 'cause  that  durn,  eternal,  infernal, 
dad-blasted  whistle  o'  his  'ud  beat  the  oldest 
man  in  Ameriky ! ' ' 


MARTHY    ELLEN, 

KEY'S  NOTHIN'  in  the  name  to  strike 

A  feller  more'n  common  like! 

'Taint  liable  to  git  no  praise 

Ner  nothin'  like  it  nowadays; 

An'  yit  that  name  o'  her'n  is  jest 

As  purty  as  the  purtiest — 

And  more  'n  that,  I  'm  here  to  say 

I  '11  live  a-thinkin'  thataway 

And  die  fer  Marthy  Ellen! 

It  may  be  I  was  prejudust 
In  favor  of  it  from  the  fust— 
'Cause  I  kin  ricollect  jest  how 
We  met,  and  hear  her  mother  now 
A-callin'  of  her  down  the  road— 
And,  aggervatin'  little  toad!— 
I  see  her  now,  jes'  sort  o'  half- 
Way  disapp'inted,  turn  and  laugh 

And  mock  her — "Marthy  Ellen!" 

Our  people  never  had  no  fuss, 

And  yit  they  never  tuck  to  us; 

We  neighbered   back  and  foreds  some; 

Until  they  see  she  liked  to  come 

To  our  house — and  me  and  her 

Were  jest  together  ever'whur 

And  all  the  time — and  when  they  'd  see 

That  I  liked  her  and  she  liked  me, 

They'd  holler  "Marthy  Ellen!" 


120  MARTHY   FTJLEN. 

When  we  growed  up,  and  they  shet  down 
On  me  and  her  a-runniii'  roun' 
Together,  and  her  father  said 
He  'd  never  leave  her  narj  red, 
So  he'p  him,  ef  she  married  me, 
And  so  on — and  her  mother  she 
Jest  agged  the  gyrl,  and  said  she  'lowed 
Sne  'd  ruther  see  her  in  her  shroud, 
I  -writ   to  Mar  thy  Ellen — 

That  is,  I  kindo'  tuck  my  pen 
In  hand,  and  stated  whur  and  when 
The  undersigned  would  be  that  night, 
With  two  good  hosses  saddled  right 
Fer  lively  traveliii'  in  case 
Her  folks  'ud  like  to  jine  the  race. 
She  sent  the  same  note  back,  and  writ 
"The  rose  is  red!"  right  under  it — 

"  Your'n  allus,  Marthy  Ellen.* 

That 's  all,  I  reckon— Nothin'  more 
To  tell  but  what  you  've  heerd  afore — 
The  same  old  story,  sweeter  though 
Fer  all  the  trouble,  do  n't  you  know. 
Old-fashioned  name!  and  yit  it's  jest 
As  purty  as  the  purtiest, 
And  more  'n  that,  I  'm  here  to  say 
I  *11  live  a-thinking  thataway, 

And  die  fer  Marthy  Elieni 


MOON-DROWNED. 

TWAS  THE  HEIGHT  of  the  fiSte  when  we  quitted  the 
riot, 

And  quietly  stole  to  the  terrace  alone, 
Where,  pale  as  the  lovers  that  ever  swear  by  it, 

The  moon  it  gazed  down  as  a  god  from  his  throne. 
We  stood  there  enchanted. — And  O  the  delight  of 

The  sight  of  the  stars  and  the  moon  and  the  sea, 
And  the  infinite  skies  of  that  opulent  night  of 

Purple  and  gold  and  ivory  ! 

The  lisp  of  the  lip  of  the  ripple  just  under— 

The  half-awake  nightingale's  dream  in  the  yews — 
Came  up  from  the  water,  and  down  from  the  wonder 

Of  shadowy  foliage,  drowsed  with  the  dews, — 
Unsteady  the  firefly's  taper — unsteady 

The  poise  of  the  stars,  and  their  light  in  the  tide, 
As  it  struggled  and  writhed  in  caress  of  the  eddy, 

As  love  in  the  billowy  breast  of  a  bride. 

The  far-away  lilt  of  the  waltz  rippled  to  us, 

And  through  us  the  exquisite  thrill  of  the  air  : 
Like  the  scent  of  bruised  bloom  was  her  breath,  and  its 
dew  was 

Not  honier-sweet  than  her  warm  kisses  were. 
We  stood  there  enchanted.— And  O  the  delight  of 

The  sight  of  the  stars  and  the  moon  nad  the  sea. 
And  the  infinite  skies  of  that  opulent  night  of 

Purple  and  gold  and  ivory  1 


(121) 


AFORE  HE  KNOWED  WHO  SANTY- 
CLAUS  WUZ. 


JES'  A  LITTLE  bit  o'  feller—  I  remember  still,— 
Ust  to  almost  cry  fer  Christmas,  like  a  youngster 

will. 

Fourth  o'  July  's  nothin'  to  it  !—  New-  Year's  ai  n't  a  smell  : 
Easter-Sunday  —  Circus-day  —  jes'  all  dead  in  the  shell  ! 
Lordy,  though  !  at  night,  you  know,  to  set  around  and  hear 
The  old  folks  work  the  story  off  about  the  sledge  and  deer, 
And  "  Santy  "  skootin'  round  the  roof,  all  wrapped  in  fur 

and  fuzz  — 
Long  afore 

I  knowed  who 

"  Santy-Claus  "  wuz  ! 

Ust  to  wait,  and  set  up  late,  a  week  er  two  ahead  : 
Could  n't  hardly  keep  awake,  ner  would  n't  go  to  bed  : 
Kittle  stewin'  on  the  fire,  and  Mother  settin'  here 
Darnin'  socks,  and  rockin'  in  the  skreeky  rockin'-cheer  ; 
Pap  gap',  and  wunder  where  it  wuz  the  money  went, 
And  quar'l  with  his  frosted  heels,  and  spill  his  liniment: 
And  me  a-dreamin'  sleigh-bells  when  the  clock  'ud  whir 

and  buzz, 
Long  afore 

I  knowed  who 

"  Santy-Claus  "  wuz  ! 

Size  the  fire-place  up,  and  figger  how  "  Old  Santy  "  could 
Manage  to  come  down  the  chimbly,  like  they  said  he  would  : 
Wisht  that  I  could  hide  and  see  him  —  wundered  what 

he  'd  say 

Ef  he  ketched  a  feller  layin'  fer  him  thataway  1 
(122) 


LONG   AFORE    HE    KNOWED.  123 

But  I  bet  on  him,  and  liked  him,  same  as  ef  he  had 
Turned  to  pat  me  on  the  back  and  say,  "  Look  here,  mj  lad, 
Here  's  my  pack, — jes'  he'p  yourse'f,  like  all  good  boys 

does ! " 
Long  afore 

I  knowed  who 

"  Santy-Claus  "  wuz  ! 

Wisht  that  yarn  was  true  about  him,  as  it  'peared  to  be — 
Truth  made  out  o'  lies  like  that-un  's  good  enough  fer  me! — 
Wisht  I  still  wuz  so  confidin'  I  could  jes'  go  wild 
Over  hangin'  up  my  stockin's,  like  the  little  child 
Climbin'  in  my  lap  to-night,  and  beggin'  me  to  tell 
'Bout  them  reindeers,  and  "  Old  Santy  "  that  she  loves  so 

well 

I  'm  half  sorry  fer  this  little-girl-sweetheart  of  his — 
Long  afore 

She  knows  who 

"  Santy-Claus  "  is  ! 


DEAR  HANDS. 

HE  TOUCHES  of  her  hands  are  like  the  fall 

Of  velvet  snowflakes;  like  the  touch  of  down 
The  peach  just  brushes  'gainst  the  garden  wall; 
The  flossy  fondlings  of  the  thistle-wisp 

Caught  in  the  crinkle  of  a  leaf  of  brown 
The  blighting  frost  hath  turned  from  green  to  crisp. 

Soft  as  the  falling  of  the  dusk  at  night, 
The  touches  of  her  hands,  and  the  delight— 
The  touches  of  her  hands  ! 
The  touches  of  her  hands  are  like  the  dew 
That  falls  so  softly  down  no  one  e'er  knew 
The  touch  thereof  save  lovers  like  to  one 
Astray  in  lights  where  ranged  Endymion. 

O  rarely  soft,  the  touches  of  her  hands, 
As  drowsy  zephyrs  in  enchanted  lands ; 

Or  pulse  of  dying  fay  ;   or  fairy  sighs  ; 
Or — in  between  the  midnight  and  the  dawn, 
When  long  unrest  and  tears  and  fears  are  gone — - 

Sleep,  smoothing  down  the  lids  of  weary  eyes. 


(124) 


THIS  MAN  JONES. 

HIS  MAN  JONES  was  what  you'd  call 
A  feller  'at  had  no  sand  at  all ; 
Kind  o'  consumpted,  and  undersize, 
And  sailor-complected,  with  big  sad  eyes, 
And  a  kind-of-a  sort-of-a  hang-dog  style, 
And  a  sneakin'  sort-of-a  half-way  smile 
'At  kind  o'  give  him  away  to  us 
As  a  preacher,  maybe,  er  somepin'  wuss. 

Did  n't  take  with  the  gang — well,  no — 

But  still  we  managed  to  use  him,  though,— 

Coddin'  the  gilly  along  the  rout', 

And  drivin'  the  stakes  'at  he  pulled  out— 

Fer  I  was  one  of  the  bosses  then, 

And  of  course  stood  in  with  the  canvasmen ; 

And  the  way  we  put  up  jobs,  you  know, 

On  this  man  Jones  jes'  beat  the  show  ! 

Ust  to  rattle  him  scandalous, 
And  keep  the  feller  a-dodgin'  us, 
And  a-shyin'  round  half  skeered  to  death, 
And  afeerd  to  whimper  above  his  breath ; 
Give  him  a  cussin',  and  then  a  kick, 
And  then  a  kind-of-a  back-hand  lick— 
Jes'  fer  the  fun  of  seein'  him  climb 
Around  with  a  head  on  most  the  time. 

But  what  was  the  curioust  thing  to  me, 
Was  along  o'  the  party — let  me  see, — 
Who  was  our  "  Lion  Queen  "  last  year  ?— 
Mamzelle  Zanty,  or  De  La  Pierre  ? — 
Well,  no  matter — a  stunnin'  mash, 
With  a  red-ripe  lip,  and  a  long  eye-lash, 
And  a  figger  sich  as  the  angels  owns — 
And  one  too  many  fer  this  man  Jones. 

(125) 


126  THIS   MAN  JONES. 

He  'd  allus  wake  in  the  afternoon, 

As  the  band  waltzed  in  on  the  lion-tune, 

And  there,  from  the  time  'at  she  'd  go  in 

Till  she  'd  back  out  of  the  cage  agin, 

He  'd  stand,  shaky  and  limber-kneed — 

'Specially  when  she  come  to  "  feed 

The  beasts  raw  meat  with  her  naked  hand  "» 

And  all  that  business,  you  understand. 

And  it  was  resky  in  that  den — 
Fer  I  think  she  juggled  three  cubs  then, 
And  a  big  "  green  "  lion  'at  used  to  smash 
Collar-bones  fer  old  Frank  Nash  ; 
And  I  reckon  now  she  hain  't  fergot 
The  afternoon  old  "  Nero  "  sot 
His  paws  on  her! — but  as  fer  me, 
It's  a  sort-of-a  mixed-up  mystery: — 

Kind  o'  remember  an  awful  roar, 
And  see  her  back  fer  the  bolted  door — 
See  the  cage  rock — heerd  her  call 
"  God  have  mercy ! "  and  that  was  all— 
Fer  they  ain  't  no  livin'  man  can  tell 
Wkat  it 's  like  when  a  thousand  yell 
In  female  tones,  and  a  thousand  more 
Howl  in  bass  till  their  throats  is  sore! 

But  the  keeper  said  'at  dragged  her  out, 
They  heerd  some  feller  laugh  and  shout — 
"  Save  her  !     Quick  !     I  Ve  got  the  cuss  ! " 
And  yit  she  waked  and  smiled  on  us  ! 
And  we  dare  n't  flinch,  fer  the  doctor  said, 
Seein'  as  this  man  Jones  was  dead, 
Better  to  jes'  not  let  her  know 
Nothin'  o'  that  fer  a  week  er  so. 


TO  MY   GOOD    MASTER. 

TN  FANCY,  always,  at  thy  desk,  thrown  wide, 
*•     Thy  most  betreasured  books  ranged  neighborly. 

The  rarest  rhymes  of  every  land  and  sea 
And  curious  tongue— thine  old  face  glorified,— 
Thou  haltest  thy  glib  quill,  and,  laughing-eyed, 
Givest  hale  welcome  even  unto  me, 
Profaning  thus  thine  attic's  sanctity, 
To  briefly  visit,  yet  to  still  abide 
Enthralled  there  of  thy  sorcery  of  wit, 
And  thy  songs'  most  exceeding  dear  conceits. 
O  lips,  cleft  to  the  ripe  core  of  all  sweets, 
With  poems,  like  nectar,  issuing  therefrom, 
Thy  gentle  utterances  do  overcome 
My  listening  heart  and  all  the  love  of  it! 


(127) 


I 


WHEN   THE   GREEN    GITS   BACK   IN   THE 
TREES. 

N  SPRING,  when  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees, 

And  the  sun  comes  out  and  stays, 
And  yer  boots  pulls  on  with  a  good  tight  squeeze, 

And  you  think  of  yer  barefoot  days; 
When  you  ort  to  work  and  you  want  to  not. 

And  you  and  yer  wife  agrees 
It 's  time  to  spade  up  the  garden  lot, 

When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees — 
Well!  work  is  the  least  o'  my  idees 
When  the  green,  you  know,  gits  back  in  the  trees! 

When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees,  and  bees 

Is  a-buzzin'  aroun'  agin, 
In  that  kind  of  a  lazy  go-as-you-please 

Old  gait  they  bum  roun'  in; 
When  the  groun's  all  bald  where  the  hay-rick  stood, 

And  the  crick  's  riz,  and  the  breeze 
Coaxes  the  bloom  in  the  old  dogwood, 

And  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees, — 
I  like,  as  I  say,  in  sich  scenes  as  these, 
The  time  when  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees ! 

When  the  whole  tail-feathers  o'  wintertime 

Is  all  pulled  out  and  gone! 
And  the  sap  it  thaws  and  begins  to  climb, 

And  the  sweat  it  starts  out  on 
A  feller's  forred,  a-gittin5  down 

At  the  old  spring  on  his  knees — 
I  kind  o'  like  jes'  a-loaferin'  roun' 

When  the  green  gits  back  in  the  trees — 
Jes'  a-potterin'  roun'  as  I — durn — please — 
When  the  green,  you  know,  gits  back  in  the  trees! 
(128) 


AT  BROAD  RIPPLE. 

H,  LUXURY!     Beyond  the  heat 

And  dust  of  town,  with  dangling  feet, 
Astride  the  rock  below  the  dam, 
In  the  cool  shadows  where  the  calm 
Rests  on  the  stream  again,  and  all 
Is  silent  save  the  waterfall, — 
I  bait  my  hook  and  cast  my  line, 
And  feel  the  best  of  life  is  mine. 

No  high  ambition  may  I  claim — 
I  angle  not  for  lordly  game 
Of  trout,  or  bass,  or  wary  bream — 
A  black  perch  reaches  the  extreme 
Of  my  desires  ;  and  "goggle-eyes  " 
Are  not  a  thing  that  I  despise  ; 
A  sunfish,  or  a  "  chub,"  or  "  cat  " — 
A  "  silver-side  "—yea,  even  that ! 

In  eloquent  tranquility 
The  waters  lisp  and  talk  to  me. 
Sometimes,  far  out,  the  surface  breaks, 
As  some  proud  bass  an  instant  shakes 
His  glittering  armor  in  the  sun, 
And  romping  ripples,  one  by  one, 
Come  dallying  across  the  space 
Where  undulates  my  smiling  face. 

The  river's  story  flowing  by, 
Forever  sweet  to  ear  and  eye, 
Forever  tenderly  begun — 
Forever  new  and  never  done. 
Thus  lulled  and  sheltered  in  a  shade 
Where  never  feverish  cares  invade, 
I  bait  my  hook  and  cast  my  line, 
And  feel  the  best  of  life  is  mine. 
(129) 


WHEN  OLD  JACK  DIED, 
i. 

*V\/ HEN  old  Jack  died,  we  staid  from  school  (they 

said, 

At  home,  we  need  n't  go  that  day),  and  none 
Of  us  ate  any  breakfast — only  one, 
And  that  was  Papa — and  his  eyes  were  red 
When  he  came  round  where  we  were,  by  the  shed 
Where  Jack  was  lying,  half  way  in  the  sun 
And  half  way  in  the  shade.     When  we  begun 
To  cry  out  loud,  Pa  turned  and  dropped  his  head 
And  went  away;  and  Mamma,  she  went  back 
Into  the  kitchen.     Then,  for  a  long  while, 
All  to  ourselves,  like,  we  stood  there  and  cried. 
We  thought  so  many  good  things  of  Old  Jack, 
And  funny  things — although  we  did  n't  smile — 
We  could  n't  only  cry  when  Old  Jack  died. 

ii. 

When  Old  Jack  died,  it  seemed  a  human  friend 

Had  suddenly  gone  from  us;  that  some  face 

That  we  had  loved  to  fondle  and  embrace 

From  babyhood,  no  more  would  condescend 

To  smile  on  us  forever.     We  might  bend 

With  tearful  eyes  above  him,  interlace 

Our  chubby  fingers  o'er  him,  romp  and  race, 

Plead  with  him,  call  and  coax — aye,  we  might  send 

The  old  halloo  up  for  him,  whistle,  hist, 

(If  sobs  had  let  us)  or,  as  wildly  vain, 

Snapped  thumbs,  called  "  speak,"  and  he  had  not  replied; 

We  might  have  gone  down  on  our  knees  and  kissed 

The  tousled  ears,  and  yet  they  must  remain 

Deaf,  motionless,  we  knew — when  Old  Jack  died. 


WHEN    OLD  JACK   DIED.  131 


III. 

When  Old  Jack  died,  it  seemed  to  us,  some  way, 

That  all  the  other  dogs  in  town  were  pained 

With  our  bereavement,  and  some  that  were  chained, 

Even,  unslipped  their  collars  on  that  day 

To  visit  Jack  in  state,  as  though  to  pay 

A  last,  sad  tribute  there,  while  neighbors  craned 

Their  heads  above  the  high  board  fence,  and  deigned 

To  sigh  "  Poor  dog!  "  remembering  how  they 

Had  cuffed  him,  when  alive,  perchance,  because, 

For  love  of  them  he  leaped  to  lick  their  hands — 

Now,  that  he  could  not,  were  they  satisfied  ? 

We  children  thought  that,  as  we  crossed  his  paws, 

And  o'er  his  grave,  'way  down  the  bottom-lands, 

Wrote  "  Our  First  Love  Lies  Here,"  when  Old  Jack  died 


DOC    SIFERS. 

OF  ALL  THE  DOCTORS  I  could  cite  you  to  in 
this -'ere  town 

Doc  Sifers  is  my  favorite,  jes'  take  him  up  and  down! 
Count  in  the  Bethel  Neighberhood,  and  Rollins,  and  Big 

Bear, 
And  Sifers'  standin's  jes'  as  good  as  ary  doctor's  there! 

There  's  old  Doc  Wick,  and  Glenn,  and  Hall,  and  Wurg- 

ler,  and  McVeigh, 

But  I  '11  buck  Sifers  'ginst  'em  all  and  down  'em  any  day! 
Most    old    Wick    ever  knowed,   I   s'pose,   was   'whisky! 

Wurgler — well, 
He  et  morphine — ef  actions  shows,  and  facts'  reliable! 

But  Sifers — though  he  ain't  no  sot,  he's  got  his  faults; 

and  yit 
When  you  git  Sifers  onc't,  you  ve  got  a  doctor,  don't 

fergit! 

He  ain't  much  at  his  office,  er  his  house,  er  anywhere 
You  'd  natchurly  think  certain  fer  to  ketch  the  feller  there. — 

But  do  n't  blame  Doc:  he's  got  all  sorts  o'  cur'ous  no 
tions — as 

The  feller  says,  his  odd-come-shorts,  like  smart  men 
mostly  has. 

He'll  more  'n  like  be  potter  'n  'round  the  Blacksmith  Shop; 
er  in 

Some  back  lot,  spadin'  up  the  ground,  er  gradin'  it  agin. 

Er  at  the  workbench,  planin'  things;  er  buildin'  little 
traps 

To  ketch  birds;  galvenizin'  rings;  er  graftin'  plums,  per 
haps. 

Make  anything!  good  as  the  best! — a  gunstock — era  flute; 

He  whittled  out  a  set  o'  chesstmen  onc't  o'  laurel  root. 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


DOC    SIFER'n»ii^.  133 


Durin'  the  Army  —  got  his  trade  o'  surgeon  there  —  I  own 
To-day  a  finger-ring  Doc  made  out  of  a  Sesesh  bone! 
An'  glued  a  fiddle  onc't  fer  me  —  jes'  all  so  busted  you 
'D  a  throwed  the  thing  away,  but  he  fixed  her  as  good 
as  new! 

And  take  Doc,  now,  in  ager,  say,  er  biles,  er  rheumatiz, 
And  all  afflictions  thataway,  and  he's  the  best  they  is! 
Er  janders  —  milksick  —  I  do  n't  keer  —  k-yore  anything  he 

tries  — 
A  abscess;  getherin'  in  yer  yeer;  er  granilated  eyes! 

There  was  the  Widder  Daubenspeck  they  all  give  up  fer 

dead; 
A  blame  cowbuncle  on  her  neck,  and  clean  out  of  her 

head! 
First  had  this  doctor,  what  's-his-name,  from  "Puddles- 

burg,"  and  then 
This  little  red-head,  "  Burnin'  Shame"  they  call  him  —  Dr. 

Glenn. 

And  they  "  consulted  "  on  the  case,  and  claimed  she  'd  haf 

to  die,  — 

I  jes'  was  joggin'  by  the  place,  and  heerd  her  dorter  cry, 
And  stops  and  calls  her  to  the  fence;  and  .I-says-I,  "Let 

me 
Send    Sifers  —  bet  you   fifteen   cents   he'll   k-yore   her!" 

"  Well,"  says  she, 

"  Light  out!  "  she  says:  And,  lipp-tee-cut1  1  loped  in  town, 

and  rid 
'Bout  two  hours  more  to  find  him,  but  I  kussed  him  when 

I  did! 
He  was  down  at  the  Gunsmith  Shop  a-stuffin'  birds!  Says 

he, 
"  My  sulky  's  broke."     Says  I,  "  You  hop  right  on  and 

ride  with  me-'  " 


SIFERS. 

I  got  him  there. — "  Well,  Aunty,  ten  days  k-yores  you," 

Sifers  said, 

"But  what 's  yer  idy  livin'  whenyer  jes'  as  good  as  dead?" 
And  there  's  Dave  Banks — jes'  back  from  war  without  a 

scratch — one  day 
Got  ketched  up  in  a  sickle-bar,  a  reaper  runaway. — 

His  shoulders,  arms,  and  hands  and  legs  jes'  sawed  in 

strips !     And  Jake 
Dunn  starts  fer  Sifers— feller  begs  to  shoot  him  fer  God- 

sake. 
Doc,  'course,  was  gone,  but  he  had  penned  the  notice,  "At 

Big  Bear — 
Be  back  to-morry;    Gone  to  'tend  the    Bee    Convention 

there." 

But  Jake,  he  tracked   him— rid  and  rode  the  whole  en- 

durin'  night ! 
And  'bout  the  time  the  roosters  crowed  they  both  hove 

into  sight. 
Doc  had  to  ampitate,  but  'greed  to  save  Dave's  arms,  and 

swore 
He  could  a-saved  his  legs  ef  he  'd  ben  there  the  day  before. 

Like  when  his  wife's  own  mother  died  'fore  Sifers  could 

be  found, 
And  all  the  neighbers  fer  and  wide  a'  all  jes'  chasin'  round; 

Tel  finally — I  had  to  laugh — it 's  jes'  like  Doc,  you  know, 

Was  learnin'  fer  to  telegraph,  down  at  the  old  deepo. 

But  all  they  're  faultin'  Sifers  fer,  there  's  none  of  'em  kin 

say 

He 's  biggoty,  er  keerless,  er  not  posted  anyway; 
He  ain't  built  on  the  common  plan  of  doctors  now-a-days, 
He's  jes'  a  great,  big,  brainy  man— that  's   where    the 

trouble  lays! 


AT  NOON— AND  MIDNIGHT. 

IN  THE  NIGHT,  and  jet  no  rest  for  him!    The 

pillow  next  his  own 
The  wife's  sweet  face  in  slumber  pressed — yet  he  awake — 

alone!  alone! 
In  vain  he  courted  sleep; — one  thought  would  ever  in  his 

heart  arise, — 

The  harsh  words  that  at  noon  had  brought  the  teardrops 
to  her  eyes. 

Slowly  on  lifted  arm  he  raised  and  listened.     All  was  still 

as  death; 
He  touched  her  forehead  as  he  gazed,  and  listened  yet, 

with  bated  breath: 
Still  silently,  as  though  he  prayed,  his  lips  moved  lightly 

as  she  slept — 
For  God  was  with  him,  and  he  laid  his  face  with  hers  and 

wept. 

12 


/V  Wild 


A  WILD  IRISHMAN. 

IVOT  very  many  years  ago  the  writer  was 
^^  for  some  months  stationed  at  South 
Bend,  a  thriving  little  city  of  northern  Indi 
ana,  its  main  population  on  the  one  side  of 
the  St.  Joseph  river,  but  quite  a  respectable 
fraction  thereof  taking  its  industrial  way  to 
the  oprjosite  shore,  and  there  gaining  an  aud 
ience  and  a  hearing  in  the  rather  imposing 
growth  and  hurly-burly  of  its  big  manufac 
tories,  and  the  consequent  rapid  appearance  of 
multitudinous  neat  cottages,  tenement  houses 
and  business  blocks.  A  stranger,  entering 
South  Bend  proper  on  any  ordinary  day,  will 
be  at  some  loss  to  account  for  its  prosperous 
appearance — its  flagged  and  bowldered  streets 
— its  handsome  mercantile  blocks,  banks,  and 
business  houses  generally.  Reasoning  from 
cause  to  effect,  and  seeing  but  a  meager 
sprinkling  of  people  on  the  streets  throughout 
the  day,  and  these  seeming,  for  the  most  part, 
merely  idlers,  and  in  no  wise  accessory  to  the 
evident  thrift  and  opulence  of  their  surround 
ings,  the  observant  stranger  will  be  puzzled 
at  the  situation.  But  when  evening  comes, 
and  the  outlying  foundries,  sewing-machine, 


J4O  A  WILD    IRISHMAN. 

wagon,   plow,  and  other  "  works,"  together 
with  the  paper-mills  and  all  the  nameless  in 
dustries—when  the  operations  of  all  these  are 
suspended  for  the  day,  and  the  workmen  and 
workwomen  loosed  from  labor— then,  as  this 
vast  army  suddenly  invades    and    overflows 
bridge,  roadway,  street  and  lane,  the  startled 
stranger  will  fully  comprehend  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  the  city's  high  prosperity.     And, 
once  acquainted  with  the  people  there,  the 
fortunate  sojourner  will  find  no  ordinary  cult 
ure  and  intelligence,  and,  as  certainly,  he  will 
meet  with   a  social   spirit  and  a  wholesouled 
heartiness  that  will  make  the  place  a  lasting 
memory.    The  town,  too,  is  the  home  of  many 
world-known  notables,   and  a  host   of  local 
celebrities,  the  chief  of  which  latter  class  I 
found,  during  my  stay  there,  in  the  person  of 
Tommy  Stafford,  or  "  The  Wild  Irishman  "  as 
everybody  called  him. 

6  Talk  of  odd  fellows  and  eccentric  charac. 
ters,"  said  Major  Blowney,  my  employer,  one 
afternoon,  ''you  must  see  our  'Wild  Irish 
man  ?  here  before  you  say  you  Ve  yet  found 
the  queerest,  brightest,  cleverest  chap  in  all 
your  travels.  What  d 'ye  say,  Stockford?" 
And  the  Major  paused  in  his  work  of  charging 
cartridges  for  his  new  breech-loading  shotgun 
and  turned  to  await  his  partner's  response. 


A   WILD    IRISHMAN.  14! 

Stockford,  thus  addressed,  paused  above 
the  shield-sign  he  was  lettering,  slowly  smil 
ing  as  be  dipped  and  trailed  his  pencil  through 
the  ivory  black  upon  a  bit  of  broken  glass  and 
said,  in  his  deliberate,  half- absent-minded 
way, — "Is  it  Tommy  you're  telling  him 
about?"  and  then,  with  a  gradual  broadening 
of  the  smile,  he  went  on,  "  Well,  I  should  say 
so.  Tommy!  What's  come  of  the  fellow, 
anyway?  I  have  n't  seen  him  since  his  last 
bout  with  the  mayor,  on  his  trial  for  shakin' 
up  that  fast-horse  man." 

"  The  fast-horse  man  got  just  exactly  what 
he  needed,  too,"  said  the  genial  Major,  laugh 
ing,  and  mopping  his  perspiring  brow.  "  The 
fellow  was  barkin'  up  the  wrong  stump  when 
he  tackled  Tommy  !  Got  beat  in  the  trade,  at 
his  own  game,  you  know,  and  wound  up  by 
an  insult  that  no  Irishman  would  take ;  and 
Tommy  just  naturally  wore  out  the  hall  carpet 
of  the  old  hotel  with  him  !  " 

"And  then  collared  and  led  him  to  the 
mayor's  office  himself,  they  say  !  " 

"  Oh,  he  did  !  "  said  the  Major,  with  a  dash 
of  pride  in  the  confirmation  ;  "  that 's  Tommy 
all  over!" 

"Funny  trial,  wasn't  it?"  continued  the 
ruminating  Stockford. 

"  Was  n't  it  though?  "  laughed  the  Major. 


142  A   WILD    IRISHMAN. 

"The  porter's  testimony:  You  see,  he  was 
for  Tommy,  of  course,  and  on  examination 
testified  that  the  horse-man  struck  Tommy 
first.  And  there  Tommy  broke  in  with: 
"  He  's  a-meanin'  well,  yer  Honor,  but  he  's 
lyin'  to  ye — he  's  lyin'  to  ye.  No  livin'  man 
iver  struck  me  first — nor  last,  nayther,  for  the 
matter  o'  that ! '  And  I  thought — the — court 
— would — die  !  "  concluded  the  Major,  in  a 
like  imminent  state  of  merriment. 

"  Yes,  and  he  said  if  he  struck  him  first," 
supplemented  Stockford,  "  he  'd  like  to  know 
why  the  horseman  was  '  wearin'  all  the  black 
eyes,  and  the  blood,  and  the  boomps  on  the 
head  of  um  ! '  And  it 's  that  talk  of  his  that 
got  him  off  with  so  light  a  fine  !  " 

"As  it  always  does,"  said  the  Major,  com 
ing  to  himself  abruptly  and  looking  at  his 
watch.  "Stock',  you  say  you 're  not  going 
along  with  our  duck-shooting  party  this  time? 
The  old  Kankakee  is  just  lousy  with  'em  this 
season !  " 

"  Can  't  go  possibly,"  said  Stockford,  "  not 
on  account  of  the  work  at  all,  but  the  folks  at 
home  ain't  just  as  well  as  I  'd  like  to  see 
them,  and  I  '11  stay  here  till  they  're  better. 
Next  time  I  '11  try  and  be  ready  for  you.  Go 
ing  to  take  Tommy,  of  course?" 

« '  Of  course  !     Got  to  have  <  The  Wild  Irish- 


A   WILD    IRISHMAN.  143 

man '  with  us  !  I  'm  going  around  to  find  him 
now."  Then  turning  to  me  the  Major  con 
tinued,  "  Suppose  you  get  on  your  coat  and 
hat  and  come  along?  It's  the  best  chai&e 
you  '11  ever  have  to  meet  Tommy.  It 's  late 
anyhow,  and  Stockford  '11  get  along  without 
you.  Come  on." 

66  Certainly,"  said  Stockford;  "  go  ahead. 
And  you  can  take  him  ducking,  too,  if  he 
wants  to  go." 

"  But  he  does  n't  want  to  go — and  won't 
go,"  replied  the  Major  with  a  commiserative 
glance  at  me.  "  Says  he  does  n't  know  a 
duck  from  a  poll- parrot — nor  how  to  load  a 
shotgun — and  could  n't  hit  a  house  if  he  were 
inside  of  it  and  the  door  shut.  Admits  that 
he  nearly  killed  his  uncle  once,  on  the  other 
side  of  a  tree,  with  a  squirrel  runnin'  down  it. 
Do  n't  want  him  along  !  " 

Reaching  the  street  with  the  genial  Major, 
he  gave  me  this  advice:  "  Now,  when  you 
meet  Tommy,  you  must  n't  take  all  he  says 
for  dead  earnest,  and  you  must  n't  believe,  be 
cause  he  talks  loud,  and  in  italics  every  other 
word,  that  he  wants  to  do  all  the  talking  and 
wo  n't  be  interfered  with.  That 's  the  way  he  V 
apt  to  strike  folks  at  first— but  it 's  their  mis 
take,  not  his.  Talk  back  to  him — controvert 
him  whenever  he  's  aggressive  in  the  utter- 


144  4    WILD    IRISHMAN. 

ance  of  his  opinions,  and  if  you  're  only  hon 
est  in  the  announcement  of  your  own  ideas 
and  beliefs,  he  '11  like  you  all  the  better  for 
standing  by  them.  He  's  quick-tempered,  and 
perhaps  a  trifle  sensitive,  so  share  your 
greater  patience  with  him,  and  he  '11  pay  you 
back  by  fighting  for  you  at  the  drop  of  the 
hat.  In  short,  he 's  as  nearly  typical  of  his 
gallant  country's  brave,  impetuous,  fun-loving 
individuality  as  such  a  likeness  can  exist." 

"  But  is  he  quarrelsome?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  at  all.  There 's  the  trouble.  If  he  'd 
only  quarrel  there  'd  be  no  harm  done.  Quar 
reling  's  cheap,  and  Tommy  's  extravagant. 
A  big  blacksmith  here,  the  other  day,  kicked 
some  boy  out  of  his  shop,  and  Tommy,  on  his 
cart,  happened  to  be  passing  at  the  time  ;  and 
he  just  jumped  off  without  a  word,  and  went 
in  and  worked  on  that  fellow  for  about  three 
minutes,  with  such  disastrous  results  that  they 
could  n't  tell  his  shop  from  a  slaughter-house  ; 
paid  an  assault  and  battery  fine,  and  gave  the 
boy  a  dollar  beside,  and  the  whole  thing  was 
a  positive  luxury  to  him.  But  I  guess  we  'd 
better  drop  the  subject,  for  here  's  his  cart, 
and  here  's  Tommy.  Hi !  there,  you  6  Far- 
down'  Irish  Mick  !  "  called  the  Major,  in  af 
fected  antipathy,  "  been  out  raiding  the  honest 
farmers'  hen-roosts  again,  have  you?" 


A  WILD    IRISHMAN.  145 

We  had  halted  at  a  corner  grocery  and  prod 
uce  store,  as  I  took  it,  and  the  smooth-faced, 
shave-headed  man  in  woolen  shirt,  short  vest, 
and  suspenderless  trousers  so  boisterously  ad 
dressed  by  the  Major,  was  just  lifting  from  the 
back  of  his  cart  a  coop  of  cackling  chickens. 

"Arrah  !  ye  blasted  Kerryonian  !  "  replied 
the  handsome  fellow,  depositing  the  coop  on 
the  curb  and  straightening  his  tall,  slender 
figure ;  "  I  were  jist  thinking  of  yez  and  the 
ducks,  and  here  ye  come  quackin'  into  the 
prisence  of  r'yalty,  wid  yer  canvas-back  suit 
upon  ye  and  the  shwim-skins  bechuxt  yer 
toes  !  How  air  yez,  anyhow — and  air  we  start- 
in'  for  the  Kankakee  by  the  nixt  post?" 

"  We  're  to  start  just  as  soon  as  we  get  the 
boys  together,"  said  the  Major,  shaking  hands. 
"The  crowd 's  to  be  at  Andrews'  by  4,  and  it 's 
fully  that  now ;  so  come  on  at  once.  We  '11 
go  'round  by  Munson's  and  have  Hi  send  a 
boy  to  look  after  your  horse.  Come ;  and  I 
want  to  introduce  my  friend  here  to  you,  and 
we  '11  all  want  to  smoke  and  jabber  a  little  in 
appropriate  seclusion.  Come  on."  And  the 
impatient  Major  had  linked  arms  with  his  hes 
itating  ally  and  myself,  and  was  turning  the 
corner  of  the  street. 

"  It 's  an  hour's  work  I  have  yet  wid  the 
squawkers,"  mildly  protested  Tommy,  still 


146  A   WILD    IRISHMAN. 

hanging  back  and  stepping  a  trifle  high  ;  "but, 
as  one  Irishman  would  say  til  another,  '  Ye  're 
wrong,  but  I  'm  wid  ye  ! ' : 

And  five  minutes  later  the  three  of  us  had 
joined  a  very  jolly  party  in  a  snug  back  room, 
with 

"  The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With  portraitures  of  huntsman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
And  the  hurt  deer;" 

and  where,  as  well,  drifted  over  the  olfactory 
intelligence  a  certain  subtle,  warm-breathed 
aroma,  that  genially  combatted  the  chill  and 
darkness  of  the  day  without,  and,  resurrecting 
long-dead  Christmases,  brimmed  the  grateful 
memory  with  all  comfortable  cheer. 

A  dozen  hearty  voices  greeted  the  appear 
ance  of  Tommy  and  the  Major,  the  latter  ad 
roitly  pushing  the  jovial  Irishman  to  the  front, 
with  a  mock-heroic  introduction  to  the  general 
company,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  Tommy, 
with  his  hat  tucked  under  the  left  elbow,  stood 
bowing  with  a  grace  of  pose  and  presence  Lord 
Chesterfield  might  have  applauded. 

"Gintlemen,"  said  Tommy,  settling  back 
upon  his  heels  and  admiringly  contemplating 
the  group;  "Gintlemen,  I  congratu-late  yez 
wid  a  pride  that  shoves  the  thumbs  o'  me  into 
the  arrum-holes  of  me  weshkit !  At  the  inshti- 


A   WILD    IRISHMAN.  147 

gation  of  the  bowld  0'Blowney — axin'  the 
gintleman's  pardon — I  am  here  wid  no  silver 
tongue  of  illoquence  to  para-lyze  yez,  but  I 
am  prisent,  as  has  been  ripresinted,  to  jine 
wid  yez  in  a  stupendeous  waste  of  gun-pow 
der,  and  duck-shot,  and  '  high-wines,'  and 
ham  sand-witches,  upon  the  silvonian  banks 
of  the  ragin'  Kankakee,  where  the  '  di-dipper ' 
tips  ye  good-bye  wid  his  tail,  and  the  wild 
loon  skoots  like  a  sky-rocket  for  his  exiled 
home  in  the  alien  dunes  of  the  wild  morass — 
or,  as  Tommy  Moore  so  illegantly  describes 
the  blashted  birrud, — 

'Away  to  the  dizhmal  shwamp  he  shpeeds — 

His  path  is  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
And  many  a  fen  where  the  serpent  feeds, 
And  birrud  niver  fleiv  before — 
And  niver  iv  ill  fly  any  more 

if  iver  he  arrives  back  safe  into  civilization 
again — and  I  've  been  in  the  poultry  business 
long  enough  to  know  the  private  opinion  and 
personal  integrity  of  ivery  fowl  that  flies  the 
air  or  roosts  on  poles.  But,  changin'  the  sub 
ject  of  my  few  small  remarks  here,  and 
thankin  yez  wid  an  overflowin'  heart  but  a 
dhry  tongue,  I  have  the  honor  to  propose,  gin- 
tlemen,  long  life  and  health  to  ivery  mother's 


I/j.8  A   WILD    IRISHMAN. 

son  o'  yez,  and  success  to  the  *  Duck-hunters 
of  Kankakee.'" 

"The  duck-hunters  of  the  Kankakee !  " 
chorussed  the  elated  party  in  such  musical 
uproar  that  for  a  full  minute  the  voice  of  the 
enthusiastic  Major — who  was  trying  to  say 
something — could  not  be  heard.  Then  he 
said : 

"  I  want  to  propose  that  theme — '  The 
Duck-hunters  of  the  Kankakee ',  for  one  of 
Tommy's  improvizations.  I  move  we  have  a 
song  now  from  Tommy  on  the  '  Duck-hunters 
of  the  Kankakee.'" 

"Hurra!  Hurra!  A  song  from  Tommy," 
cried  the  crowd.  "  Make  us  up  a  song,  and 
put  us  all  into  it !  A  song  from  Tommy  !  A 
song !  A  song !  " 

There  was  a  queer  light  in  the  eye  of  the 
Irishman.  I  observed  him  narrowly — expect 
antly.  Often  I  had  read  of  this  phenomenal 
art  of  improvised  ballad-singing,  but  had  al 
ways  remained  a  little  skeptical  in  regard  to 
the  possibility  of  such  a  feat.  Even  in  the 
notable  instances  of  this  gift  as  displayed  by 
the  very  clever  Theodore  Hook,  I  had  always 
half  suspected  some  prior  preparation — some 
adroit  forecasting  of  the  sequence  that  seemed 
the  instant  inspiration  of  his  witty  verses. 


A   WILD    IRISHMAN.  149 

Here  was  evidently  to  be  a  test  example,  and 
I  was  all  alert  to  mark  its  minutest  detail. 

The  clamor  had  subsided,  and  Tommy  had 
drawn  a  chair  near  to  and  directly  fronting  the 
Major's.  His  right  hand  was  extended, 
closely  grasping  the  right  hand  of  his  friend 
which  he  scarce  perceptibly,  though  measur- 
edly,  lifted  and  let  fall  throughout  the  length 
of  all  the  curious  performance.  The  voice 
was  not  unmusical,  nor  was  the  quaint  old 
ballad-air  adopted  by  the  singer  unlovely  in 
the  least ;  simply  a  monotony  was  evident 
that  accorded  with  the  levity  and  chance-fin 
ish  of  the  improvisation — and  that  the  song 
was  improvised  on  the  instant  I  am  certain — 
though  in  no  wise  remarkable,  for  other  rea 
sons,  in  rhythmic  worth  or  finish.  And  while 
his  smiling  auditors  all  drew  nearer,  and  leant, 
with  parted  lips  to  catch  every  syllable,  the 
words  of  the  strange  melody  trailed  unhesitat 
ingly  into  the  lines  literally  as  here  subjoined  : 

"  One  gloomy  day  in  the  airly  Fall, 
Whin  the  sunshine  had  no  chance  at  all — 
No  chance  at  all  for  to  gleam  and  shine 
And  lighten  up  this  heart  of  mine: 

"  'Twas  in  South  Bend,  that  famous  town, 
Whilst  I  were  a-strollin*  round  and  round, 
I  met  some  friends  and  they  says  to  me: 

« It 's  a  hunt  we  '11  take  on  the  Kankakee! '  " 


150  A   WILD    IRISHMAN. 

"  Hurra  for  the  Kankakee  !  Give  it  to  us, 
Tommy ! '  cried  an  enthused  voice  between 
verses.  "  Now  give  it  to  the  Major  !  "  And 
the  song  went  on  : — 

"  There  's  Major  Blowney  leads  the  van, 
As  crack  a  shot  as  an  Irishman, — 
For  its  the  duck  is  a  tin  decoy 
That  his  owld  shotgun  can  't  destroy: 

And  a  half  a  dozen  jubilant  palms  patted 
the  Major's  shoulders,  and  his  ruddy,  good- 
natured  face  beamed  with  delight.  "Now 
give  it  to  the  rest  of  'em,  Tommy  !  "  chuckled 
the  Major.  And  the  song  continued  : — 

"  And  along  wid  '  Hank  '  is  Mick  Maharr, 
And  Barney  Pince,  at  *  The  Shamrock '  bar — 
There  's  Barney  Pinch,  wid  his  heart  so  true; 
And  the  Andrews  Brothers  they  '11  go  too." 

"  Hold  on,  Tommy  !  "  chipped  in  one  of  the 
Andrews;  "you  must  give  '  the  Andrews 
Brothers '  a  better  advertisement  than  that ! 
Turn  us  on  a  full  verse,  can  't  you?  " 

"  Make  ?em  pay  for  it  if  you  do  !  "  said  the 
Major,  in  an  undertone.  And  Tommy 
promptly  amended : — 

"  O,  the  Andrews  Brothers,  they  '11  be  there, 
Wid  good  se-gyars  and  wine  to  shpare, — 
They  '11  treat  us  here  on  fine  champagne, 
And  whin  we  're  there  they  '11  treat  us  again." 


A   WILD    IRISHMAN.  151 

The  applause  here  was  vociferous,  and  only 
discontinued  when  a  box  of  Havanas  stood 
open  on  the  table.  During  the  momentary 
lull  thus  occasioned,  I  caught  the  Major's 
twinkling  eyes  glancing  evasively  toward  me, 
as  he  leant  whispering  some  further  instruc 
tions  to  Tommy,  who  again  took  up  his  des 
ultory  ballad,  while  I  turned  and  fled  for  the 
street,  catching,  however,  as  I  went,  and  high 
above  the  laughter  of  the  crowd,  the  satire  of 
this  quatrain  to  its  latest  line  • — - 

"But  R-R-Riley  he  '11  not  go,  I  guess, 
Lest  he  'd  get  lost  in  the  wil-der-ness, 
And  so  in  the  city  he  will  shtop 
For  to  curl  his  hair  in  the  barber  shop." 

It  was  after  six  when  I  reached  the  hotel, 
but  I  had  my  hair  trimmed  before  I  went 
in  to  supper.  The  style  of  trimming  adopted 
then  I  still  rigidly  adhere  to,  and  call  it  "  the 
Tommy  Stafford  stubble-crop." 

Ten  days  passed  before  I  again  saw  the 
Major.  Immediately  upon  his  return — it  was 
late  afternoon  when  I  heard  of  it — I  deter 
mined  to  take  my  evening  walk  out  the  long 
street  toward  his  pleasant  home  and  call  upon 
hira  there  This  I  did,  and  found  him  in  a 
wholesome  state  of  fatigue,  slippers  and  easy 
chair,  enjoying  his  pipe  on  the  piazza.  Of 


152  A  WILD    IRISHMAN. 

course,  he  was  overflowing  with  happy  rem 
iniscences  of  the  hunt — the  wood-and-water- 
craft — boats — ambushes — decoys,  and  tramp, 
and  camp,  and  so  on,  without  end ; — but  I 
wanted  to  hear  him  talk  of  "  The  Wild  Irish 
man" — Tommy;  and  I  think,  too,  now,  that 
the  sagacious  Major  secretly  read  my  desires 
all  the  time.  To  be  utterly  frank  with  the 
reader  I  will  admit  that  I  not  only  think  the 
Major  divined  my  interest  in  Tommy,  but  I 
know  he  did ;  for  at  last,  as  though  reading 
my  very  thoughts,  he  abruptly  said,  after  a 
long  pause,  in  which  he  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe  and  refilled  and  lighted  it : — 
"  Well,  all  I  know  of  <  The  Wild  Irishman '  I 
can  tell  you  in  a  very  few  words — that  is,  if 
you  care  at  all  to  listen?  "  And  the  crafty  old 
Major  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  Go  on — go  on  I  "  I  said,  eagerly. 

66  About  forty  years  ago,"  resumed  the  Ma 
jor,  placidly,  "in  the  little,  old,  unheard-of 
town  Karnteel,  County  Tyrone,  Province  Ul 
ster,  Ireland,  Tommy  Stafford — in  spite  of  the 
contrary  opinion  of  his  wretchedly  poor  par 
ents — was  fortunate  enough  to  be  born.  And 
here,  again,  as  I  advised  you  the  other  day, 
you  must  be  prepared  for  constant  surprises  in 
the  study  of  Tommy's  character.'* 


A  WILD    IRISHMAN.  153 

"  Go  on,"  I  said ;  "  I  'm  prepared  for  any 
thing,  '" 

The  Major  smiled  profoundly  and  contin 
ued  : — 

"  Fifteen  years  ago,  when  he  came  to  Amer 
ica — and  the  Lord  only  knows  how  he  got 
the  passage-money — he  brought  his  widowed 
mother  with  him  here,  and  has  supported,  and 
is  still  supporting  her.  Besides,"  went  on  the 
still  secretly  smiling  Major,  "the  fellow  has 
actually  found  time,  through  all  his  adversi 
ties,  to  pick  up  quite  a  smattering  of  education, 
here  and  there — " 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  I  broke  in,  sympathizingly, 
"  what  a  pity  it  is  that  he  could  n't  have  had 
such  advantages  earlier  in  life,"  and  as  I  re 
called  the  broad  brogue  of  the  fellow,  together 
with  his  careless  dress,  recognizing  beneath 
it  all  the  native  talent  and  brilliancy  of  a  mind 
of  most  uncommon  worth,  I  could  not  restrain 
a  deep  sigh  of  compassion  and  regret. 

The  Major  was  leaning  forward  in  the  gath 
ering  dusk,  and  evidently  studying  my  own 
face,  the  expression  of  which,  at  that  moment, 
was  very  grave  and  solemn,  I  am  sure.  He 
suddenly  threw  himself  backward  in  his  chair, 
in  an  uncontrollable  burst  of  laughter.  "  Oh, 
I  just  can't  keep  it  up  any  longer,"  he  ex 
claimed. 


154  A   WILD    IRISHMAN. 

"  Keep  what  up?"  I  queried,  in  a  perfect 
maze  of  bewilderment  and  surprise.  "Keep 
what  up?"  I  repeated. 

"Why,  all  this  twaddle,  farce,  travesty  and 
by-play  regarding  Tommy !  You  know  I 
warned  you,  over  and  over,  and  you  mustn't 
blame  me  for  the  deception.  I  never  thought 
you  'd  take  it  so  in  earnest !  "  and  here  the 
jovial  Major  again  went  into  convulsions  of 
laughter. 

"  But  I  don 't  understand  a  word  of  it  all," 
I  cried,  half  frenzied  with  the  gnarl  and  tan 
gle  of  the  whole  affair.  "What  'twaddle, 
farce  and  by-play,'  is  it  anyhow?"  And  in 
my  vexation,  I  found  myself  on  my  feet  and 
striding  nervously  up  and  down  the  paved 
walk  that  joined  the  street  with  the  piazza, 
pausing  at  last  and  confronting  the  Major  al 
most  petulantly.  "Please  explain,"  I  said, 
controlling  my  vexation  with  an  effort. 

The  Major  arose.  "  Your  striding  up  and 
down  there  reminds  me  that  a  little  stroll  on 
the  street  might  do  us  both  good,"  he  said. 
"  Will  you  wait  until  I  get  a  coat  and  hat?  " 

He  rejoined  me  amomentlater,and  we  passed 
through  the  open  gate;  and  saying,  "Let's 
go  down  this  way,"  he  took  my  arm  and 
turned  into  a  street,  where,  cooling  as  the 
dusk  was,  the  thick  maples  lining  the  walk, 


A   WILD    IRISHMAN.  155 

seemed  to  throw  a  special  shade  of  tranquil- 
ity  upon  us. 

"  What  I  meant  was  " — began  the  Major, 
in  low,  serious  voice, — "What  I  meant  was — 
simply  this :  Our  friend  Tommy,  though  the 
truest  Irishman  in  the  world,  is  a  man  quite 
the  opposite  everyway  of  the  character  he  has 
appeared  to  you.  All  that  rich  brogue  of  his 
is  assumed.  Though  he  's  poor,  as  I  told 
you,  when  he  came  here,  his  native  quickness, 
and  his  marvelous  resources,  tact,  judgment, 
business  qualities — all  have  helped  him  to  the 
equivalent  of  a  liberal  education.  His  love  of 
the  humorous  and  the  ridiculous  is  unbounded  ; 
but  he  has  serious  moments,  as  well,  and  at 
such  times  is  as  dignified  and  refined  in  speech 
and  manner  as  any  man  you  'd  find  in  a  thous 
and.  He  is  a  good  speaker,  can  stir  a  politi 
cal  convention  to  fomentation  when  he  gets 
fired  up ;  and  can  write  an  article  for  the 
press  that  goes  spang  to  the  spot.  He  gets 
into  a  great  many  personal  encounters  of  a 
rather  undignified  character ;  but  they  are  al 
most  invariably  bred  of  his  innate  interest  in 
the  '  under  dog,'  and  the  fire  and  tow  of  his 
impetuous  nature." 

My  companion  had  paused  here,  and  was 
looking  through  sotne  printed  slips  in  his 
pocket-book.  "  I  wanted  you  to  see  some  of 


156  A   WILD    IRISHMAN. 

the  fellow's  articles  in  print,  but  I  have  noth 
ing  of  importance  here — only  some  of  his 
'doggerel,'  as  he  calls  it,  and  you  've  had  a 
sample  of  that.  But  here  's  a  bit  of  the  upper 
spirit  of  the  man — and  still  another  that  you 
should  hear  him  recite.  You  can  keep  them 
both  if  you  care  to.  The  boys  all  fell  in  love 
with  that  last  one,  particularly,  hearing  his 
rendition  of  it.  So  we  had  a  lot  printed,  and 
I  have  two  or  three  left.  Put  these  two  in  your 
pocket  and  read  at  your  leisure." 

But  I  read  them  there  and  then,  as  eagerly, 
too,  as  I  append  them  here  and  now.  The  first 
is  called — 

SAYS  HE. 

"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 

"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be, 
It 's  plaze,  if  ye  will,  an'  I  '11  say  me  say, — 
Supposin'  to-day  was  the  winterest  day, 
Wud  the  weather  be  changing  because  ye  cried, 
Or  the  snow  be  grass  were  ye  crucified? 
The  best  is  to  make  your  own  summer,"  says  he, 
"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be ! 

"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 

"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be, 
It 's  the  songs  ye  sing,  an'  the  smiles  ye  wear, 
That's  a-makin'  the  sunshine  everywhere; 
An'  the  world  of  gloom  is  a  world  of  glee, 
Wid  the  bird  in  the  bush,  an'  the  bud  in  the  tree. 
An*  the  fruit  on  the  stim  of  the  bough,"  says  hfc, 
"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be! 


A   WILD    IRISHMAN.  I $7 

"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 

"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be, 
Ye  can  bring  the  Spring,  wid  its  green  an'  gold, 
An'  the  grass  in  the  grove  where  the  snow  lies  cold, 
An'  ye  '11  warm  yer  back,  wid  a  smiling  face, 
As  ye  sit  at  yer  heart  like  an  owld  fire-place, 
An'  toast  the  toes  o'  yer  soul,"  says  he, 
"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be,"  says  he — 
"  Whatever  the  weather  may  be! " 

st  Now,"  said  the  Major,  peering  eagerly 
above  my  shoulder,  "go  on  with  the  next. 
To  my  liking,  it  is  even  better  than  the  first. 
A  type  of  character  you  '11  recognize. — The 
same  '  broth  of  a  boy,'  only  Americanized, 
don  't  you  know." 

And  1  read  the  scrap  entitled — 

CHAIRLEY  BURKE. 

It's   Chairley   Burke 's    in   town,   b'ys!     He's   down   til 

"Jamesy's  Place," 
Wid  a  bran'  new  shave  upon  'um,  an'  the  f  hwhuskers  aff 

his  face; 
He  's  quit  the  Section  Gang  last  night,  and  yez  can  chalk 

it  down, 
There's  goin'   to  be  the  divil's   toime,   sence    Chairley 

Burke  's  in  town. 

It 's  treatin'  iv'ry  b'y  he  is,  an'  poundin'  on  the  bar 

Till  iv'ry  man  he 's  drinkin'  wid  must  shmoke  a  foine 
cigar; 

An'  Missus  Murphy's  little  Kate,  that 's  comin'  there  for 
beer, 

Can't  pay  wan  cint  the  bucketful,  the  whilst  that  Chair- 
ley  's  here ! 


£58  A  WILD    IRISHMAN. 

He's  joompin'  oor  the  tops  o'  sthools,  the  both  forninst 

an'  back! 
He  '11  lave  yez  pick  the  blessed  flure,  an'  walk  the  straight- 

est  crack! 
He 's   liftin'  barrels  wid   his   teeth,   and   singin'  "  Garry 

Owen," 
Till  all  the  house  be  strikin'  hands,  sence  Chairley  Burke 's 

in  town. 

The  Road-Yaird  hands  comes  dhroppin'in,  an' nivergoin' 

back; 
An'  there  's  two  freights  upon  the  switch — the  wan  on 

aither  track — 
An'  Mr.  Gearry,  from  The  Shops,  he 's  mad  enough  to 

swear, 
An*  durst  n't   spake   a   word   but   grin,   the   whilst  that 

Chairley 's  there! 

Oh!   Chairley!    Chairley!    Chairley  Burke!  ye  divil,  wid 

yer  ways 
O'  dhrivin'  all  the  throubles  aff,  these  dark  an'  gloomy 

days ! 

Ohone!  that  it 's  meself,  wid  all  the  griefs  I  have  to  drown, 
Must  lave  me  pick  to  resht  a  bit,  sence  Chairley  Burke  's 

in  town! 

"  Before  we  turn  back,  now,"  said  the  smil 
ing  Major,  as  I  stood  lingering  over  the  in 
definable  humor  of  the  last  refrain,  "before 
we  turn  back  I  want  to  show  you  something 
eminently  characteristic.  Come  this  way  a 
half  dozen  steps." 

As  he  spoke  I  looked  up,  to  first  observe 
that  we  had  paused  before  a  handsome  square 
brick  residence,  centering  a  beautiful  smooth 


A  WILD    IRISHMAN.  I59 

.awn,  its  emerald  only  littered  with  the  light 
gold  of  the  earliest  autumn  leaves.  On  either 
side  of  the  trim  walk  that  led  up  from  the 
gate  to  the  carved  stone  ballusters  of  the  broad 
piazza,  with  its  empty  easy  chairs,  were  grace 
ful  vases,  frothing  over  with  late  blossoms, 
and  wreathed  with  laurel-looking  vines  ;  and, 
luxuriantly  lacing  the  border  of  the  pave  that 
turned  the  further  corner  of  the  house,  blue, 
white  and  crimson,  pink  and  violet,  went  fad 
ing  in  perspective  as  my  gaze  followed  the 
gesture  of  the  Major's. 

"  Here,  come  a  little  further.  Now  do  you 
see  that  man  there?  " 

Yes,  I  could  make  out  a  figure  in  the  deep 
ening  dusk — the  figure  of  a  man  on  the  back 
stoop — a  tired  looking  man,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
who  sat  upon  a  low  chair — no,  not  a  chair — 
an  empty  box.  He  was  leaning  forward  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  the  hands  drop 
ped  limp.  He  was  smoking,  too,  I  could 
barely  see  his  pipe,  and  but  for  the  odor  of 
very  strong  tobacco,  would  not  have  known 
he  had  a  pipe.  Why  does  the  master  of  the 
house  permit  his  servants  to  so  desecrate  this 
beautiful  home?  I  thought. 

66  Well,  shall  we  go  now?  "  said  the  Major. 

I  turned  silently  and  we  retraced  our  steps. 


l6o  A   WILD    IRISHMAN. 

I  think  neither  of  us  spoke  for  the  distance  of 
a  square. 

"  Guess  you  did  n't  know  the  man  there  on 
the  back  porch?  "  said  the  Major. 

"  No  ;  why  ?  "  I  asked  dubiously. 

"  I  hardly  thought  you  would,  and  besides 
the  poor  fellow  's  tired,  and  it  was  best  not  to 
disturb  him,"  said  the  Major. 

"  Why  ;  who  was  it — some  one  I  know?  " 

"  It  was  Tommy." 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  inquiringly,  "  he 's  employed 
there  in  some  capacity?" 

"  Yes,  as  master  of  the  house." 

"  You  don't  mean  it?" 

"  I  certainly  do.  He  owns  it,  and  made 
every  cent  of  the  money  that  paid  for  it !  " 
said  the  Major  proudly.  "  That  's  why  I 
wanted  you  particularly  to  note  that  '  eminent 
characteristic '  I  spoke  of.  Tommy  could 
just  as  well  be  sitting,  with  a  fine  cigar,  on 
the  front  piazza  in  an  easy  chair,  as,  with  his 
dhudeen,  on  the  back  porch,  on  an  empty 
box,  where  every  night  you  '11  find  him.  Its 
the  unconscious  dropping  back  into  the  old 
ways  of  his  father,  and  his  father's  father,  and 
his  father's  father's  father.  In  brief,  he  sits 
there  the  poor  lorn  symbol  of  the  long  oppres 
sion  of  his  race." 


Ragweed 


WHEN  MY   DREAMS  COME  TRUE. 


MY  dreams  come  true — when  my  dreams 
come  true — 
Shall  I  lean  from  out  my  casement,  in  the  starlight  and 

the  dew, 

To  listen — smile  and  listen  to  the  tinkle  of  the  strings 
Of  the  sweet  guitar  my  lover's  fingers  fondle,  as  he  sings? 
And  as  the  nude  moon  slowly,  slowly  shoulders  into  view, 
Shall  I  vanish  from  his  vision — when  my  dreams  come  true? 

When  my  dreams  come  true — shall  the  simple  gown  I  wear 
Be  changed  to  softest  satin,  and  my  maiden-braided  hair 
Be  raveled  into  flossy  mists  of  rarest,  fairest  gold, 
To  be  nrnted  into  kisses,  more  than  any  heart  can  hold? — 
Or  "  the  summer  of  my  tresses  "  shall  my  lover  liken  to 
"The  fervor  of  his  passion" — when  my  dreams  come  true? 

ii. 
When  my  dreams  come   true— I  shall  bide  among  the 

sheaves 

Of  happy  harvest  meadows;  and  the  grasses  and  the  leaves 
Shall  lift  and  lean  between  me  and  the  splendor  of  the  sun, 
Till  the  noon  swoons  into  twilight,  and  the  gleaners'  work 

is  done — 

Save  that  yet  an  arm  shall  bind  me,  even  a?  the  reapers  do 
The  meanest  sheaf  of  harvest — when  my  dreams  come  true. 

When  my  dreams  come  true!  when  my  dreams  come  true! 
True  love  in  all  simplicity  is  fresh  and  pure  as  dew; — 
The  blossom  in  the  blackest  mold  is  kindlier  to  the  eye 
Than  any  lily  born  of  pride  that  looms  against  the  sky: 
And  so  it  is  I  know  my  heart  will  gladly  welcome  you, 
My  lowliest  of  lovers,  when  my  dreams  come  true. 
(163) 


A  DOS'T  O'  BLUES. 

:'  GOT  NO  patience  with  blues  at  all! 
And  I  ust  to  kindo  talk 
Aginst  'em,  and  claim,  'tel  along  last  Fall, 

They  was  none  in  the  fambly  stock; 
But  a  nephew  of  mine,  from  Eelinoy, 

That  visited  us  last  year, 
He  kindo  convinct  me  differunt 
While  he  was  a-stayin'  here. 

Frum  ever'-which  way  that  blues  is  from, 

They  'd  tackle  him  ever'  ways ; 
They  'd  come  to  him  in  the  night,  and  come 

On  Sundays,  and  rainy  days; 
They  'd  tackle  him  in  corn-plantin'  time, 

And  in  harvest,  and  airly  Fall, 
But  a  dose  't  of  blues  in  the  wintertime, 

He  'lowed,  was  the  worst  of  all! 

Said  all  diseases  that  ever  he  had— 
The  mumps,  er  the  rheumatiz— 

Er  ever'-other-day-aigger  's  bad 
Purt'  nigh  as  anything  is! — 

Er  a  cyarbuncle,  say,  on  the  back  of  his  neck, 
Er  a  felon  on  his  thumb, — 

But  you  keep  the  blues  away  from  him, 
And  all  o'  the  rest  could  come! 

And  he  'd  moan,  "  They 's  nary  a  leaf  below  ! 

Ner  a  spear  o'  grass  in  sight! 
And  the  whole  wood-pile 's  clean  under  snow! 

And  the  days  is  dark  as  night! 
(164) 


BLUES.  165 


You  can't  go  out — ner  you  can't  stay  in—* 
Lay  down — stand  up — ner  set!" 

And  a  tetch  o'  regular  ty  fold -blues 
Would  double  him  jest  clean  shet! 

I  writ  his  parents  a  postal-kyard, 

He  could  stay  'tel  Spring-time  come* 
And  Aprile  first,  as  I  rickollect, 

Was  the  day  we  shipped  him  home! 
Most  o'  his  relatives,  sence  then, 

Has  either  give  up,  er  quit, 
Er  jest  died  off;  but  I  understand 

He  's  the  same  old  color  yit! 


THE  BAT. 


HOU  DREAD,  uncanny  thing, 
With  fuzzy  breast  and  leathern  wing, 

In  mad,  zigzagging  flight, 
Notching  the  dusk,  and  buffeting 

The  black  cheeks  of  the  night, 
With  grim  delight! 

ii. 

What  witch's  hand  unhasps 
Thy  keen  claw-cornered  wings 
From  under  the  barn  roof,  and  flings 

Thee  forth,  with  chattering  gasps, 
To  scud  the  air, 

And  nip  the  lady-bug,  and  tear 

Her  children's  hearts  out  unaware? 

in. 

The  glow-worm's  glimmer,  and  the  bright, 
Sad  pulsings  of  the  fire-fly's  light, 

Are  banquet  lights  to  thee. 
O  less  than  bird,  and  worse  than  beast, 
Thou  Devil's  self,  or  brat,  at  least, 

Grate  not  thy  teeth  at  me! 


(166) 


THE  WAY   IT   WU2. 

'  JULY — an',  I  persume 

'Bout  as  hot 
As  the  ole  Gran'-Jury  room 

Where  they  sot!— 

Fight  'twixt  Mike  an'  Dock  McGriff— 
'Pears  to  me  jes'  like  as  if 

I  'd  a  dremp'  the  whole  blame  thing — 

Allus  ha'nts  me  roun'  the  gizzard 
When  they  're  nightmares  on  the  wing, 

An'  a  feller's  blood  's  jes'  friz! 
Seed  the  row  from  a  to  izzard — 
'Cause  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clost  to  'em 
As  me  an'  you  is! 

Tell  you  the  way  it  wuz — 

An'  I  do  n't  want  to  see, 
Like  some  fellers  does, 

When  they  're  goern  to  be 
Any  kind  o'  fuss — 
On'y  makes  a  rumpus  wuss 

Fer  to  interfere 

When  their  dander  's  riz — 
But  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clost  to  'em 
As  me  an'  you  is! 

I  .wuz  kind  o'  strayin' 

Past  the  blame  saloon — 
Heerd  some  fiddler  playin' 

That  "  ole  hee-cup  tune!" 
Sort  o'  stopped,  you  know, 
Fer  a  minit  er  so, 

And  wuz  jes'  about 
(167) 


1 68  THE   WAY  IT  WUZ. 

Settin'  down,  when — Jeemses  whizz! 

Whole  durn  winder-sash  fell  out! 
An'  there  laid  Doc  McGriff,  and  Mike 
A-straddlin'  him,  all  bloody-like, 

An'  both  a-gittin'  down  to  biz! — 
An'  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clost  to  'em 
As  me  an'  you  is! 

*  wuz  the  on'y  man  aroun' — 
(Durn  old-fogy  town! 
'Feared  more  like,  to  me, 
Sunday  'an  Saturday!) 
Dog  come  'crost  the  road 
An'  tuck  a  smell 

An'  put  right  back; 
Mishler  driv  by  'ith  a  load 

O'  cantalo'pes  he  could  n't  sell- 
Too  mad,  'y  jack! 
To  even  ast 

What  wuz  up,  as  he  went  past! 
Weather  most  outrageous  hot! — 

Fairly  hear  it  sizz 

Roun'  Dock  an'  Mike— till  Dock  he  shot, 
An'  Mike  he  slacked  that  grip  o'  his 
An'  fell,  all  spraddled  out.     Dock  riz 
'Bout  half  up,  a-spittin'  red, 
An'  shuck  his  head — 
An'  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clost  to  'em 
As  me  an'  you  is! 

An'  Dock  he  says, 

A-whisperin'-like, — 
"  It  hain't  no  use 
A-tryin' ! — Mike 

He  's  jes'  ripped  my  daylights  loos«J~ 


THE   WAY   IT   WUZ.  169 

Git  that  blame-don  fiddler  to 
Let  up,  an'  come  out  here — You 
Got  some  burryin'  to  do, — 

Mike  makes  one,  an'  I  expects 
In  ten  seconds  I  '11  make  two  ' " 

And  he  drapped  back,  where  he  riz, 
'Crost  Mike's  body,  black  and  blue, 

Like  a  great  big  letter  X ! — 
An'  I  wuz  a-standin'  as  clost  to  'em 

As  me  an'  you  is ! 


THE   DRUM. 

OTHE  DRUM! 
There  is  some 

Intonation  in  thy  grum 

Monotony  of  utterance  that  strikes  the  spirit  dumb, 
As  we  hear 

Through  the  clear 

And  unclouded  atmosphere, 
Thy  palpitating  syllables  roll  in  upon  the  ear! 

There 's  a  part 

Of  the  art 

Of  thy  music-throbbing  heart 

That  thrills  a  something  in  us  that  awakens  with  a  start, 
And  in  rhyme 

With  the  chime 

And  exactitude  of  time, 
Goes  marching  on  to  glory  to  thy  melody  sublime. 

And  the  guest 

Of  the  breast 

That  thy  rolling  robs  of  rest 
Is  a  patriotic  spirit  as  a  Continental  dressed; 
And  he  looms 

From  the  glooms 

Of  a  century  of  tombs, 

And  the  blood  he  spilled  at  Lexington  in  living  beauty 
blooms. 

And  his  eyes 

Wear  the  guise 

Of  a  purpose  pure  and  wise, 


THE   DRUM.  171 

As  the  love  of  them  is  lifted  to  a  something  in  the  skies 
That  is  bright 

Red  and  white, 

With  a  blur  of  starry  light, 
As  it  laughs  in  silken  ripples  to  the  breezes  day  and  night. 

There  are  deep 

Hushes  creep 

O'er  the  pulses  as  they  leap, 

As  thy  tumult,  fainter  growing,  on  the  silence  falls  asleep, 
While  the  prayer 

Rising  there 

Wills  the  sea  and  earth  and  air 
As  a  heritage  to  Freedom's  sons  and  daughters  everywhere,, 

Then,  with  sound 

As  profound 

As  the  thunderings  resound, 
Come  thy  wild  reverberations  in  a  throe  that  shakes  the 

ground, 
And  a  cry 

Flung  on  high, 

Like  the  flag  it  flutters  by, 
Wings  rapturously  upward  till  it  nestles  in  the  sky. 

O  the  drum ! 

There  is  some 

Intonation  in  thy  grum 

Monotony  of  utterance  that  strikes  the  spirit  dumb, 
As  we  hear 

Through  the  clear 

And  unclouded  atmosphere, 
Thy  palpitating  syllables  roll  in  upon  the  ear! 


TOM  JOHNSON  'S   QUIT, 

TV    PASSEL  o'  the  boys  last  night— 
n'  me  amongst  'em — kindo  got 
To  talkin'  Temper'nce  left  an'  right, 

An'  workin'  up  "  blue-ribbon,"  hot; 
An'  while  we  was  a-countin'  jes' 

How  many  hed  gone  into  hit 
An'  signed  the  pledge,  some  feller  says, — 
"Tom  Johnson  's  quit!" 

We  laughed,  of  course — 'cause  Tom,  you  know, 
He  's  spiled  more  whisky,  boy  an'  man, 

And  seed  more  trouble,  high  an'  low, 
Than  any  chap  but  Tom  could  stand: 

And  so,  says  I   "He 's  too  nigh  dead 
Fer  Temper'nce  to  benefit!" 

The  feller  sighed  agin,  and  said — 
"Tom  Johnson  's  quit!" 

We  all  liked  Tom,  an'  that  was  why 

We  sorto  simmered  down  agin, 
And  ast  the  feller  ser'ously 

Ef  he  wa'  n't  tryin'  to  draw  us  in: 
He  shuck  his  head — tuck  off  his  hat — 

Helt  up  his  hand  an'  opened  hit, 
An'  says,  says  he,  "  I  '11  swear  to  that- 
Torn  Johnson  's  quit! " 

Well,  we  was  stumpt,  an'  tickled  too, — 
Because  we  knowed  ef  Tom  hed  signed 

Ther  wa'  n't  no  man  'at  wore  the  "blue" 
'At  was  more  honester  inclined: 
(172) 


TOM   JOHNSON  *S    QUIT.  1 73 

An'  then  and  there  we  kindo  riz, — 
The  hull  dern  gang  of  us  'at  bit — 
An'  th'owed  our  hats  and  let  'er  whizz, — 
"Tom  Johnson's  quit!" 

I  've  heerd  'em  holler  when  the  balls 

Was  buzzin'  'round  us  wus  'n  bees, 
An'  when  the  ole  flag  on  the  walls 

Was  flappin'  o'er  the  enemy's, 
I  've  heerd  a-many  a  wild  "  hooray  " 

'At  made  my  heart  git  up  an'  git — 
But  Lord! — to  hear  'em  shout  that  way! — 
"  Tom  Johnson  'j  quit!  " 

But  when  we  saw  the  chap  'at  fetched 

The  news  wa'  n't  jinin'  in  the  cheer, 
But  stood  there  solemn-like,  an'  reched 

An'  kindo  wiped  away  a  tear, 
We  someway  sorto'  stilled  agin, 

And  listened — I  kin  hear  him  yit, 
His  voice  a-wobblin'  with  his  chin, — 
"  Tom  Johnson  's  quit — 

"  I  hain't  a-givin'  you  no  game — 

I  wisht  I  was!  ....  An  hour  ago, 
This  operator — what 's  his  name — 

The  one  'at  works  at  night,  you  know?— 
Went  out  to  flag  that  Ten  Express, 

And  sees  a  man  in  front  of  hit 
Th'ow  up  his  hands  an'  stagger — yes,— » 
Tom  Johnson 's  quit." 


LULLABY. 

THE  MAPLE  strews  the  embers  of  its  leaves 

O'er  the  laggard  swallows  nestled  'iieath  the  eaves; 
And  the  moody  cricket  falters  in  his  cry — Baby-bye! — 
And  the  lid  of  night  is  falling  o'er  the  sky — Baby-bye! — 
The  lid  of  night  is  falling  o'er  the  sky! 

The  rose  is  lying  pallid,  and  the  cup 

Of  the  frosted  calla-lily  folded  up; 

And  the  breezes  through  the  garden  sob  and  sigh — Baby- 
bye!— 

O'er  the  sleeping  blooms  of  summer  where  they  lie — Baby- 
bye!— 
O  er  the  sleeping  blooms  of  summer  where  they  lie! 

Yet,  Baby — O  my  Baby,  for  your  sake 
This  heart  of  mine  is  ever  wide  awake, 
And  my  love  may  never  droop  a  drowsy  eye — Baby-bye! — 
Till  your  own  are  wet  above  me  when  I  die — Baby-bye! — 
Till  your  own  are  wet  above  me  when  I  die. 


(174) 


IN  THE   SOUTH. 


HERE  IS  a  princess  in  the  South 
About  whose  beauty  rumors  hum 
Like  honey-bees  about  the  mouth 
Of  roses  dewdrops  falter  from; 
And  O  her  hair  is  like  the  fine 
Clear  amber  of  a  jostled  wine 
In  tropic  revels;  and  her  eyes 
Are  blue  as  rifts  of  Paradise. 

Such  beauty  as  may  none  before 
Kneel  daringly,  to  kiss  the  tips 
Of  fingers  such  as  knights  of  yore 
Had  died  to  lift  against  their  lips: 
Such  eyes  as  might  the  eyes  of  gold 
Of  all  the  stars  of  night  behold 
With  glittering  envy,  and  so  glare 
In  dazzling  splendor  of  despair. 

So,  were  I  but  a  minstrel,  deft 

At  weaving,  with  the  trembling  strings 
Of  my  glad  harp,  the  warp  and  weft 
Of  rondels  such  as  rapture  sings, — 
I  'd  loop  my  lyre  across  my  breast, 
Nor  stay  me  till  my  knee  found  rest 
In  midnight  banks  of  bud  and  flower 
Beneath  my  lady's  lattice-bower. 

And  there,  drenched  with  the  teary  dews, 
I  'd  woo  her  with  such  wondrous  art 

As  well  might  stanch  the  songs  that  ooze 
Out  of  the  mockbird's  breaking  heart; 
(175) 


176  IN   THE    SOUTH. 

So  light,  so  tender,  and  so  sweet 
Should  be  the  words  I  would  repeat, 
Her  casement,  on  my  gradual  sight, 
Would  blossom  as  a  lily  might. 


THE  OLD  HOME  BY  THE  MILL. 

HIS  IS  "The  old  Home  by  the  Mill"— fer  we  still 

call  it  so, 

Although  the  old  mill,  roof  and  sill,  is  all  gone  long  ago. 
The  old  home,  though,  and  old  folks,  and  the  old  spring, 

and  a  few 
Old  cat-tails,  weeds  and  hartjchokes,  is  left  to  welcome 

you! 

Here,  Marg'et,  fetch  the  man  a  tin  to  drink  out  of !  Our 
spring 

Keeps  kindo-sorto  cavin'  in,  but  do  n't  "taste"  anything! 

She 's  kindo  agein',  Marg'et  is — "  the  old  process,"  like  me, 

All  ham-stringed  up  with  rheumatiz,  and  on  in  seventy- 
three. 

Jes'  me  and  Marg'et  lives  alone  here — like  in  long  ago; 

The  childern  all  put  off  and  gone,  and  married,  do  n't  you 
know? 

One  's  millin'  way  out  West  somewhere;  two  other  miller- 
boys 

In  Minnyopolis  they  air;  and  one  's  in  Illinoise. 

The  oldest  gyrl — the  first  that  went — married  and  died 

right  here; 
The  next  lives  in  Winn's  Settlement— for  purt'  nigh  thirty 

year! 
And  youngest  one — was  allus  fer  the  old  home  here — but 

no! — 
Her  man  turns  in  and  he  packs  her  'way  off  to  Idyho! 

I  do  n't  miss  them  like  Marg'et  does— 'cause  I  got  her, 
you  see; 

(177) 


178  THE  OLD  HOME  BY  THE  MILL. 

And  when  she  pines  for  them — that  's  'cause  she's  only 

jes'  got  me! 
I  laugh,  and  joke  her  'bout  it  all. — But  talkin'  sense,  I  '11 

say, 
When  she  was  tuk  so  bad  last   Fall,  I  laughed  the  t'other 

way! 

I  haint  so  favor'ble  impressed  'bout  dyin';  but  ef  I 
Found  I  was  only  second-best  when  us  ttvo  come  to  die, 
I  'd  'dopt  the  "  new  process  "  in  full,  ef  Marg'et  died,  you 

see,— 
I'd  jes'  crawl  in  my  grave  and  pull  the  green  grass  over 

me! 


A   LEAVE-TAKING. 

HE  will  not  smile; 
She  will  not  stir; 
I  marvel  while 
I  look  on  her. 

The  lips  are  chilly 

And  will  not  speak; 
The  ghost  of  a  lily 
In  either  cheek. 

Her  hair — ah  me! 

Her  hair — her  hair! 
How  helplessly 
My  hands  go  there! 
But  my  caresses 
Meet  not  hers, 

0  golden  tresses 

That  thread  my  tears! 

I  kiss  the  eyes 

On  either  lid, 
Where  her  love  lies 

Forever  hid. 

1  cease  my  weeping 
And  smile  and  say: 

I  will  be  sleeping 
Thus,  some  day! 


(179) 


WAIT  FOR  THE  MORNING. 

AIT  for  the  morning: — It  will  come,  indeed, 
As  surely  as  the  night  hath  given  need. 
The  yearning  eyes,  at  last,  will  strain  their  sight 
No  more  unanswered  by  the  morning  light; 
No  longer  will  they  vainly  strive,  through  tears, 
To  pierce  the  darkness  of  thy  doubts  and  fears, 
But,  bathed  in  balmy  dews  and  rays  of  dawn, 
Will  smile  with  rapture  o'er  the  darkness  drawn. 

Wait  for  the  morning,  O  thou  smitten  child, 
Scorned,  scourged  and  persecuted  and  reviled — 
Athirst  and  famishing,  none  pitying  thee, 
Crowned  with  the  twisted  thorns  of  agony — 
No  faintest  gleam  of  sunlight  through  the  dense 
Infinity  of  gloom  to  lead  thee  thence. — 
Wait  for  the  morning: — It  will  come,  indeed, 
As  surely  as  the  night  hath  given  need. 


(r  So) 


WHEN  JUNE   IS   HERE. 

HEN  JUNE  is  here — what  art  have  we  to  sing 
The  whiteness  of  the  lilies  midst  the  green 
Of  noon-tranced  lawns?  Or  flash  of  roses  seen 
Like  redbirds'  wings?  Or  earliest  ripening 
Prince-Harvest  apples,  where  the  cloyed  bees  cling 
Round  winey  juices  oozing  down  between 
The  peckings  of  the  robin,  while  we  lean 
In  under-grasses,  lost  in  marveling. 

Or  the  cool  term  of  morning,  and  the  stir 
Of  odorous  breaths  from  wood  and  meadow  walks, 

The  bobwhite's  liquid  yodel,  and  the  whir 
Of  sudden  flight;  and,  where  the  milkmaid  talks 
Across  the  bars,  on  tilted  barley-stalks 
The  dewdrops'  glint  in  webs  of  gossamer. 


(181) 


TJ?c  Qildcd 


THE  GILDED  ROLL. 


around  in  an  old  box—  packed 
away,  and  lost  to  memory  for  years  — 
an  hour  ago  I  found  a  musty  package  of  gilt 
paper,  or  rather,  a  roll  it  was,  with  the  green- 
tarnished  gold  of  the  old  sheet  for  the  outer 
wrapper.  I  picked  it  up  mechanically  to  toss 
it  into  some  obscure  corner,  when,  carelessly 
lifting  it  by  one  end,  a  child's  tin  whistle  drop 
ped  therefrom  and  fell  tinkling  on  the  attic 
floor.  It  lies  before  me  on  my  writing  table 
now__and  so,  too,  does  the  roll  entire,  though 
now  a  roll  no  longer,—  for  my  eager  fingers 
have  unrolled  the  gilded  covering,  and  all  its 
precious  contents  are  spread  out  beneath  my 
hungry  eyes. 

Here  is  a  scroll  of  ink-written  music.  I 
do  n't  read  music,  but  I  know  the  dash  and 
swing  of  the  pen  that  rained  it  on  the  page. 
Here  is  a  letter,  with  the  self-same  impulse  and 
abandon  in  every  syllable  ;  and  its  melody  — 
however  sweet  the  other  —  is  far  more  sweet 
to  me.  And  here  are  other  letters  like  it- 
three—  five—  and  seven,  at  least.  Bob  wrote 
them  from  the  front,  and  Billy  kept  them  for 
(185) 


THE   GILDED   ROLL* 

me  when  I  went  to  join  him.    Dear  boy  !  Dear 

boy ! 

Here  are  some  cards  of  bristol-board.    Ah  I 
when  Bob  came  to  these  there  were  no  blotches 
then.     What  faces — what  expressions  !     The 
droll,  ridiculous,  good-for-nothing  genius,  with 
his  "sad  mouth,"   as  he  called  it,  "upside 
down,"  laughing  always — at  everything,  at  big 
rallies,  and  mass-meetings  and  conventions, 
county  fairs,  and  floral  halls,  booths,  water 
melon-wagons,    dancing -tents,    the    swing, 
Daguerrean-car,  the    "lung-barometer,"  and 
the  air-gun  man.     Oh!  what  a  gifted,  good- 
for-nothing  boy  Bob  was  in  those  old  days ! 
And  here  's  a  picture  of  a  girlish  face — a  very 
faded  photograph — even  fresh  from  "  the  gal 
lery,"  five  and  twenty  years  ago  it  was  a  faded 
thing.     But  the  living  face — how  bright  and 
clear    that   was! — for   "Doc,"    Bob's    awful 
name  for  her,  was  a  pretty  girl,  and  brilliant, 
clever,  lovable  every  way.     No  wonder  Bob 
fancied  her !     And  you  could  see  some  hint 
of  her  jaunty  loveliness  in  every  fairy  face  he 
drew,  and  you  could  find  her  happy  ways  and 
dainty  tastes  unconsciously  assumed  in  all  he 
did — the  books   he  read — the  poems  he  ad 
mired,  and  those  he  wrote  ;  and,  ringing  clear 
and  pure  and  jubilant,  the  vibrant  beauty  of 
her  voice  could  clearly  be  defined  and  traced 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  187 

through  all  his  music.  Now,  there  's  the 
happy  pair  of  them — Bob  and  Doc.  Make 
of  them  just  whatever  your  good  fancy  may 
dictate,  but  keep  in  mind  the  stern,  relentless 
ways  of  destiny. 

You  are  not  at  the  beginning  of  a  novel, 
only  at  the  threshold  of  one  of  a  hundred  ex 
periences  that  lie  buried  in  the  past,  and  this 
particular  one  most  happily  resurrected  by 
these  odds  and  ends  found  in  the  gilded  roll. 

You  see,  dating  away  back,  the  contents  of 
this  package,  mainly,  were  hastily  gath 
ered  together  after  a  week's  visit  out  at  the 
old  Mills  farm ;  the  gilt  paper,  and  the 
whistle,  and  the  pictures,  they  were  Billy's ; 
the  music  pages,  Bob's,  or  Doc's ;  the  let 
ters  and  some  other  manuscripts  were  mine. 

The  Mills  girls  were  great  friends  of 
Doc's,  and  often  came  to  visit  her  in  town; 
and  so  Doc  often  visited  the  Mills's.  This 
is  the  way  that  Bob  first  got  out  there,  and 
won  them  all,  and  "  shaped  the  thing"  for 
me,  as  he  would  put  it ;  and  lastly,  we  had 
lugged  in  Billy, — such  a  handy  boy,  you 
know,  to  hold  the  horses  on  pic-nic  excur 
sions,  and  to  watch  the  carriage  and  the 
luncheon,  and  all  that. — "Yes,  and,"  Bob 
would  say,  "  such  a  serviceable  boy  in  getting 
all  the  fishing  tackle  in  proper  order,  and  dig- 


1 88  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 

ging  bait,  and  promenading  in  our  wake  up 
and  down  the  creek  all  day,  with  the  minnow- 
bucket  hanging  on  his  arm,  do  n't  you  know  !" 

But  jolly  as  the  days  were,  I  think  jollier 
were  the  long  evenings  at  the  farm.  After 
the  supper  in  the  grove,  where,  when  the 
weather  permitted,  always  stood  the  table, 
ankle-deep  in  the  cool  green  plush  of  the 
sward;  and  after  the  lounge  upon  the  grass, 
and  the  cigars,  and  the  new  fish  stories,  and 
the  general  invoice  of  the  old  ones,  it  was  de 
lectable  to  get  back  to  the  girls  again,  and  in 
the  old  "  best  room  "  hear  once  more  the  lilt 
of  the  old  songs  and  the  stacattoed  laughter 
of  the  piano  mingling  with  the  alto  and  fal 
setto  voices  of  the  Mills  girls,  and  the  gallant 
soprano  of  the  dear  girl  Doc. 

This  is  the  scene  I  want  you  to  look  in 
upon,  as,  in  fancy,  I  do  now — and  here  are 
the  materials  for  it  all,  husked  from  the  gilded 
roll: 

Bob,  the  master,  leans  at  the  piano  now, 
and  Doc  is  at  the  keys,  her  glad  face 
often  thrown  up  sidewise  toward  his  own. 
His  face  is  boyish — for  there  is  yet  but  the 
ghost  of  a  mustache  upon  his  lip.  His  eyes 
are  dark  and  clear,  of  over-size  when  looking 
at  you,  but  now  their  lids  are  drooped  above 
his  violin,  whose  melody  has,  for  the  time,  al- 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  189 

most  smoothed  away  the  upward  kinkings  of 
the  corners  of  his  mouth.  And  wonderfully 
quiet  now  is  every  one,  and  the  chords  of  the 
piano,  too,  are  low  and  faltering ;  and  so, 
at  last,  the  tune  itself  swoons  into  the  uni 
versal  hush,  and — Bob  is  rasping,  in  its  stead, 
the  ridiculous,  but  marvelously  perfect  imita 
tion  of  the  "  priming  "  of  a  pump,  while  Bil 
ly's  hands  forget  the  "  chiggers  "  on  the  bare 
backs  of  his  feet,  as,  with  clapping  palms,  he 
dances  round  the  room  in  ungovernable 
spasms  of  delight.  And  then  we  all  laugh  ; 
and  Billy,  taking  advantage  of  the  general 
tumult,  pulls  Bob's  head  down  and  whispers, 
"Git  'em  to  stay  up  'way  late  to-night!" 
And  Bob,  perhaps  remembering  that  we  go 
back  home  to-morrow,  winks  at  the  little  fel 
low  and  whispers,  "  You  let  me  manage  'em  ! 
Stay  up  till  broad  daylight  if  we  take  a  no 
tion — eh?"  And  Billy  dances  off  again  in 
newer  glee,  while  the  inspired  musician  is 
plunking  a  banjo  imitation  on  his  enchanted 
instrument,  which  is  unceremoniously  drowned 
out  by  a  circus-tune  from  Doc  that  is  ab 
solutely  inspiring  to  everyone  but  the  bare 
footed  brother,  who  drops  back  listlessly  to  his 
old  position  on  the  floor  and  sullenly  renews 
operations  on  his  "  chigger  "  claims. 

"  Thought  you  was  goin'  to  have  pop-corn 


TQO  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 

to-night  all  so  fast!"  he  says,  doggedly,  in 
the  midst  of  a  momentary  lull  that  has  fallen 
on  a  game  of  whist.  And  then  the  oldest  Mills 
girl,  who  thinks  cards  stupid  anyhow,  says  : 
"  That 's  so,  Billy  ;  and  we  're  going  to  have 
it,  too  ;  and  right  away,  for  this  game  's  just 
ending,  and  I  sha  n't  submit  to  being  bored 
with  another.  I  say  '  pop-corn  '  with  Billy  ! 
And  after  that,"  she  continues,  rising  and 
addressing  the  party  in  general,  "  we  must 
have  another  literary  and  artistic  tournament, 
and  that 's  been  in  contemplation  and  prepar 
ation  long  enough  ;  so  you  gentlemen  can  be 
pulling  your  wits  together  for  the  exercises, 
while  us  girls  see  to  the  refreshments." 

"Have  you  done  anything  toward  it!" 
queries  Bob,  when  the  girls  are  gone,  with  the 
alert  Billy  in  their  wake. 

''Just  an  outline,"  I  reply.  "How  with 
you?" 

"  Clean  forgot  it — that  is,  the  preparation  ; 
but  I  've  got  a  little  old  second-hand  idea,  if 
you  '11  all  help  me  out  with  it,  that  '11  amuse  us 
some,  and  tickle  Billy  I  'm  certain." 

So  that 's  agreed  upon  ;  and  while  Bob  pro 
duces  his  portfolio,  drawing  paper,  pencils 
and  so  on,  I  turn  to  my  note-book  in  a  dazed 
way  and  begin  counting  my  fingers  in  a  depth 
of  profound  abstraction,  from  which  I  am 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  19! 

barely  aroused  by  the  reappearance  of  the 
girls  and  Billy. 

"Goody,  goody,  goody!  Bob's  goin'  to 
make  pictures!  "  cries  Billy,  in  additional  trans 
port  to  that  the  cake  pop-corn  has  produced. 

"Now,  you  girls,"  says  Bob,  gently  de 
taching  the  affectionate  Billy  from  one  leg  and 
moving  a  chair  to  the  table,  with  a  backward 
glance  of  intelligence  toward  the  boy, — "  you 
girls  are  to  help  us  all  you  can,  and  we  can 
all  work ;  but,  as  I  '11  have  all  the  illustrations 
to  do,  I  want  you  to  do  as  many  of  the  verses 
as  you  can — that  '11  be  easy,  you  know, — be 
cause  the  work  entire  is  just  to  consist  of  a 
series  of  fool-epigrams,  such  as,  for  instance. — 
Listen,  Billy : 

Here  lies  a  young  man 
Who  in  childhood  began 

To  swear,  and  to  smoke,  and  to  drink,— 
In  his  twentieth  year 
He  quit  swearing  and  beer, 

And  yet  is  still  smoking,  I  think." 

And  the  rest  of  his  instructions  are  deliv 
ered  in  lower  tones,  that  the  boy  may  not 
hear ;  and  then,  all  matters  seemingly  ar 
ranged,  he  turns  to  the  boy  with — "And  now, 
Billy,  no  lookin'  over  shoulders,  you  know, 
or  swinging  on  my  chair-back  while  I  'm  at 
work.  When  the  pictures  are  all  finished, 


192  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 

then  you  can  take  a  squint  at  'em,  and  not 
before.  Is  that  all  hunky,  now?" 

"  Oh!  who's  a-goin'  to  look  over  your 
shoulder — only  Doc"  And  as  the  radiant 
Doc  hastily  quits  that  very  post,  and  dives 
for  the  offending  brother,  he  scrambles  under 
the  piano  and  laughs  derisively. 

And  then  a  silence  falls  upon  the  group — a 
gracious  quiet,  only  intruded  upon  by  the  very 
juicy  and  exuberant  munching  of  an  apple 
from  a  remote  fastness  of  the  room,  arid  the 
occasional  thumping  of  a  bare  heel  against 
the  floor. 

At  last  I  close  my  note-book  with  a  half 
slam. 

"That  means,"  says  Bob,  laying  down  his 
pencil,  and  addressing  the  girls, — "That 
means  he  's  concluded  his  poem,  and  that 
he  's  not  pleased  with  it  in  any  manner,  and 
that  he  intends  declining  to  read  it,  for  that 
self-acknowledged  reason,  and  that  he  ex 
pects  us  to  believe  every  affected  word  of  his 
entire  speech — " 

"Oh,  don't!"  I  exclaim. 

"Then  give  us  the  wretched  production,  in 
all  its  hideous  deformity  !  " 

And  the  girls  all  laugh  so  sympathetically, 
and  Bob  joins  them  so  gently,  and  yet  with  a 
tone,  I  know,  that  can  be  changed  so  quickly 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  193 

to  my  further  discomfiture,  that  I  arise  at  once 
and  read,  without  apology  or  excuse,  this 
primitive  and  very  callow  poem  recovered 
here  to-day  from  the  gilded  roll : 

A   BACKWARD   LOOK. 

As  I  sat  smoking,  alone,  yesterday, 

And  lazily  leaning  back  in  my  chair, 
Enjoying  myself  in  a  general  way — 
Allowing  my  thoughts  a  holiday 

From  weariness,  toil  and  care, — 
My  fancies — doubtless,  for  ventilation — 

Left  ajar  the  gates  of  my  mind, — 
And  Memory,  seeing  the  situation, 

Slipped  out  in  street  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne.'* 

Wandering  ever  with  tireless  feet 

Through  scenes  of  silence,  and  jubilee 
Of  long-hushed  voices;  and  faces  sweet 
Were  thronging  the  shadowy  side  of  the  street 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see; 
Dreaming  again,  in  anticipation, 

The  same  old  dreams  of  our  boyhood's  days 
That  never  come  true,  from  the  vague  sensation 

Of  walking  asleep  in  the  world's  strange  ways. 

Away  to  the  house  where  I  was  born! 

And  there  was  the  selfsame  clock  that  ticked 
From  the  close  of  dusk  to  the  burst  of  morn, 
When  life-warm  hands  plucked  the  golden  corn 

And  helped  when  the  apples  were  picked. 
And  the  "chany-dog"  on  the  mantel-shelf, 

With  the  gilded  collar  and  yellow  eyes, 
Looked  just  as  at  first,  when  I  hugged  myself 

Sound  asleep  with  the  dear  surprise. 


194  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 

And  down  to  the  swing  in  the  locust  tree, 

Where  the  grass  was  worn  from  the  trampled  ground, 
And  where  "Eck"  Skinner,  "  Old"  Carr,  and  three 
Or  four  such  other  boys  used  to  be 

Doin'  "sky-scrapers,"  or  "whirlin'  round:" 
And  again  Bob  climbed  for  the  bluebird's  nest, 

And  again  "  had  shows  "  in  the  buggy-shed 
Of  Guymon's  barn,  where  still,  unguessed, 

The  old  ghosts  romp  through  the  best  days  dead' 

And  again  I  gazed  from  the  old  school -room 

With  a  wistful  look  of  a  long  June  day, 
When  on  my  cheek  was  the  hectic  bloom 
Caught  of  Mischief,  as  I  presume — 

He  had  such  a  "  partial "  way, 
It  seemed,  toward  me. — And  again  I  thought 

Of  a  probable  likelihood  to  be 
Kept  in  after  school — for  a  girl  was  caught 

Catching  a  note  from  me. 

And  down  through  the  woods  to  the  swimming-hole — 

Where  the  big,  white,  hollow,  old  sycamore  grows, — 
And  we  never  cared  when  the  water  was  cold, 
-  And  always  "  ducked  "  the  boy  that  told 

On  the  fellow  that  tied  the  clothes.— 
When  life  went  so  like  a  dreamy  rhyme, 

That  it  seems  to  me  now  that  then 
The  world  was  having  a  jollier  time 

Than  it  ever  will  have  again. 

The  crude  production  is  received,  I  am  glad 
to  note,  with  some  expressions  of  favor  from  the 
company,  though  Bob,  of  course,  must  heart 
lessly  dissipate  my  weak  delight  by  saying, 
"Well,  it 's  certainly  bad  enough;  though," 
he  goes  on  with  an  air  of  deepest  critical 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  195 

sagacity  and  fairness,  "  considered,  as  it 
should  be,  justly,  as  the  production  of  a  jour- 
poet,  why,  it  might  be  worse — that  is,  a  little 
worse." 

"  Probably,"  I  remember  saying, — "Prob 
ably  I  might  redeem  myself  by  reading  you 
this  little  amateurish  bit  of  verse,  enclosed  to 
me  in  a  letter  by  mistake,  not  very  long  ago." 
I  here  fish  an  envelope  from  my  pocket  the 
address  of  which  all  recognize  as  in  Bob's 
almost  printed  writing.  He  smiles  vacantly 
at  it — then  vividly  colors. 

"What  date?"  he  stoically  asks. 

"The  date,"  I  suggestively  answer,  "of 
your  last  letter  to  our  dear  Doc,  at  Boarding- 
School,  two  days  exactly  in  advance  of  her 
coming  home — this  veritable  visit  now." 

Both  Bob  and  Doc  rush  at  me — but  too  late. 
The  lettei  and  contents  have  wholly  vanished. 
The  youngest  Miss  Mills  quiets  us — urgently 
distracting  us,  in  fact,  by  calling  our  attention 
to  the  immediate  completion  of  our  joint  pro 
duction  ;  "  For  now,"  she  says,  "  with  our  new 
reinforcement,  we  can,  with  becoming  dili 
gence,  soon  have  it  ready  for  both  printer  and 
engraver,  and  then  we  '11  wake  up  the  boy 
(who  has  been  fortunately  slumbering  for  the 
last  quarter  of  an  hour),  and  present  to  him,  as 
designed  and  intended,  this  matchless  creation 
of  our  united  intellects."  At  the  conclusion 


1^6  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 

of  this  speech  we  all  go  good-humoredly  to 
work,  and  at  the  close  of  half  an  hour  the 
tedious,  but  most  ridiculous,  task  is  announced 
completed. 

As  I  arrange  and  place  in  proper  form  here 
on  the  table  the  separate  cards — twenty-seven 
in  number — I  sigh  to  think  that  I  am  unable 
to  transcribe  for  you  the  best  part  of  the  non 
sensical  work — the  illustrations.  All  I  can 
give  is  the  written  copy  of — 

BILLY'S   ALPHABETICAL   ANIMAL   SHOW. 


fi 


e 


WAS  an  elegant  Ape 

Who  tied  up  his  ears  with  red  tape, 

And  wore  a  long  veil 

Half  revealing  his  tail 
Which  was  trimmed  with  jet  bugles  and  crape. 

WAS  a  boastful  old  Bear 

Who  used  to  say, — "  Hoomh!  I  declare 

I  can  eat — if  you  '11  get  me 

The  children,  and  let  me — 
Ten  babies,  teeth,  toenails  and  hair!" 

WAS  a  Codfish  who  sighed 

When  snatched  from  the  home  of  his  pride, 

But  could  he,  embrined, 

Guess  this  fragrance  behind, 
How  glad  he  would  be  that  he  died! 

WAS  a  dandified  Dog 

Who  said,—"  Though  it 's  raining  like  fog 

I  wear  no  umbrellah, 

Me  boy,  for  a  fellah 
Might  just  as  well  travel  incog!  " 


THE    GILDED    ROLL. 

WAS  an  elderly  Eel 

Who  would  say, — "  Well,  I  really  feel — 
As  my  grandchildren  wriggle 
And  shout  'I  should  giggle' — 

A  trifle  run  down  at  the  heel!" 


WAS  a  Fowl  who  conceded 

Some  hens  might  hatch  more  eggs  than  she  did,- 

But  she'd  children  as  plenty 

As  eighteen  or  twenty, 
And  that  was  quite  all  that  she  needed. 

WAS  a  gluttonous  Goat 

Who,  dining  one  day,  table-cThotc, 

Ordered  soup-bone,  au  fait, 

And  fish,  papier-mache, 
And  a.  filet  of  Spring  overcoat. 

WAS  a  high-cultured  Hound 

Who  could  clear  forty  feet  at  a  bound, 

And  a  coon  once  averred 

That  his  howl  could  be  heard 
For  five  miles  and  three-quarters  around. 


H 


J 


WAS  an  Ibex  ambitious 
To  dive  over  chasms  auspicious; 
He  would  leap  down  a  peak 
And  not  light  for  a  week, 
And  swear  that  the  jump  was  delicious. 

WAS  a  Jackass  who  said 

He  had  such  a  bad  cold  in  his  head, 

If  it  was  n't  for  leaving 

The  rest  of  us  grieving, 
He  'd  really  rather  be  dead. 


198  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 


K 


I 


N 


WAS  a  profligate  Kite 

Who  would  haunt  the  saloons  every  night; 

And  often  he  ust 

To  reel  back  to  his  roost 
Too  full  to  set  up  on  it  right. 

WAS  a  wary  old  Lynx 

Who  would  say, — "  Do  you  know  wot  I  thinks? — 

I  thinks  ef  you  happen 

To  ketch  me  a-nappin' 
I  'm  ready  to  set  up  the  drinks!  " 

WAS  a  merry  old  Mole, 

Who  would  snooze  all  the  day  in  his  hole, 

Then — all  night,  a-rootin' 

Around  and  galootin' — 
He  'd  sing  "Johnny,  Fill  up  the  Bowl!" 

WAS  a  caustical  Nautilus 

Who  sneered,  "  I  suppose,  when  they  've  taught 
all  us, 

Like  oysters  they  '11  serve  us, 

And  can  us,  preserve  us, 
And  barrel,  and  pickle,  and  bottle  us!" 

WAS  an  autocrat  Owl — 

Such  a  wise — such  a  wonderful  fowl! 

Why,  for  all  the  night  through 

He  would  hoot  and  hoo-hoo, 
And  hoot  and  hoo-hooter  and  howl! 

WAS  a  Pelican  pet, 

Who  gobbled  up  all  he  could  get; 

He  could  eat  on  until 

He  was  full  to  the  bill, 
And  there  he  had  lodgings  to  let! 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  1 99 

WAS  a  querulous  Quail, 
Who  said:  "It  will  little  avail 
The  efforts  of  those 
Of  my  foes  who  propose 
To  attempt  to  put  salt  on  mj  tail ! " 

WAS  a  ring-tailed  Raccoon, 
With  eyes  of  the  tinge  of  the  moon, 
And  his  nose  a  blue-black, 
And  the  fur  on  his  back 
A  sad  sort  of  sallow  maroon. 

Sis  a  Sculpin — you  '11  wish 
Very  much  to  have  one  on  your  dish, 
Since  all  his  bones  grow 
On  the  outside,  and  so 
He  's  a  very  desirable  fish. 


WAS  a  Turtle,  of  wealth, 
Who  went  round  with  particular  stealth, — 
"  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  afraid 

Of  being  waylaid 
When  I  even  walk  out  lor  my  health!" 

WAS  a  Unicorn  curious, 

With  one  horn,  of  a  growth  so  luxurious, 

He  could  level  and  stab  it — 

If  you  did  n't  grab  it — 
Clean  through  you,  he  was  so  blamed  furious! 

WAS  was  a  vagabond  Vulture 

Who  said:  "  I  do  n't  want  to  insult  yer, 

But  when  you  intrude 
Where  in  lone  solitude 
I  'm  a-preyin',  you  're  no  man  o'  culture.'" 


u 


V 


2OO  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 


W 


WAS  a  wild  Woodchuck, 

And  you  can  just  bet  that  he  could  "  chuck "~« 

He  'd  eat  raw  potatoes, 

Green  corn,  and  tomatoes, 
And  tree  roots,  and  call  it  all  "good  chuck!" 


X 


Y 


WAS  a  kind  of  X-cuse 

Of  a  some-sort-o'-thing  that  got  loose 
Before  we  could  name  it, 
And  cage  it,  and  tame  it, 

And  bring  it  in  general  use. 

is  the  Yellowbird,— bright 
As  a  petrified  lump  of  star-light, 
Or  a  handful  of  lightning - 
Bugs,  squeezed  in  the  tight'ning 
Pink  fist  of  a  boy,  at  night. 

is  the  Zebra,  of  course!  — 

A  kind  of  a  clown-of-a-horse,— 

Each  other  despising, 

Yet  neither  devising 
A  way  to  obtain  a  divorce! 

HERE  is  the  famous — what-is-it? 

Walk  up,  Master  Billy,  and  quiz  it: 
You  Ve  seen  the  rest  of  'em — 
Ain't  this  the  best  of  'em, 

Right  at  the  end  of  your  visit? 


At  last  Billy  is  sent  off  to  bed.  It  is  the  pru 
dent  mandate  of  the  old  folks  :  But  so  loth- 
fully  the  poor  child  goes,  Bob's  heart  goes, 
too. — Yes,  Bob  himself,  to  keep  the  little  fel 
low  company  awhile,  and,  up  there  under  the 
old  rafters,  in  the  pleasant  gloom,  lull  him  to 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  2OI 

famous  dreams  with  fairy  tales.  And  it  is 
during  this  brief  absence  that  the  youngest 
Mills  girl  gives  us  a  surprise.  She  will  read  a 
poem,  she  says,  written  by  a  very  dear  friend 
of  hers  who,  fortunately  for  us,  is  not  present 
to  prevent  her.  We  guard  door  and  window 
as  she  reads.  Doc  says  she  will  not  listen ; 
but  she  does  listen,  and  cries,  too — out  of  pure 
vexation,  she  asserts.  The  rest  of  us,  how 
ever,  cry  just  because  of  the  apparent  honesty 
of  the  poem  of— 

BEAUTIFUL   HANDS. 

0  your  hands — they  are  strangely  fair! 
Fair — for  the  jewels  that  sparkle  there,— 
Fair — for  the  witchery  of  the  spell 
That  ivory  keys  alone  can  tell; 

But  when  their  delicate  touches  rest 
Here  in  my  own  do  I  love  them  best, 
As  I  clasp  with  eager  acquisitive  spans 
My  glorious  treasure  of  beautiful  hands! 

Marvelous— wonderful— beautiful  hands ! 
They  can  coax  roses  to  bloom  in  the  strands 
Of  your  brown  tresses;  and  ribbons  will  twine, 
Under  mysterious  touches  of  thine, 
Into  such  knots  as  entangle  the  soul, 
And  fetter  the  heart  under  such  a  control 
As  only  the  strength  of  my  love  understands— 
My  passionate  love  for  your  beautiful  hands. 

As  I  remember  the  first  fair  touch 

Of  those  beautiful  hands  that  I  love  so  much, 

1  seem  to  thrill  as  I  then  was  thrilled, 
Kissing  the  glove  that  I  found  unfilled— 


2O2  THE    GILDED    ROLL. 

When  I  met  your  gaze,  and  the  queenly  bow, 
As  you  said  to  me,  laughingly,  "Keep  it  now!" 
And  dazed  and  alone  in  a  dream  I  stand 
Kissing  this  ghost  of  your  beautiful  hand. 

When  first  I  loved,  in  the  long  ago, 
And  held  your  hand  as  I  told  you  so — 
Pressed  and  carressed  it  and  gave  it  a  kiss, 
And  said  "I  could  die  fora  hand  like  this!" 
Little  I  dreamed  love's  fulness  yet 
Had  to  ripen  when  eyes  were  wet, 
And  prayers  were  vain  in  their  wild  demands 
For  one  warm  touch  of  your  beautiful  hands. 

Beautiful  Hands!     O  Beautiful  Hands! 

Could  you  reach  out  of  the  alien  lands 

Where  you  are  lingering,  and  give  me,  to-night, 

Only  a  touch — were  it  ever  so  light — 

My  heart  were  soothed,  and  my  weary  brain 

Would  lull  itself  into  rest  again; 

For  there  is  no  solace  the  world  commands 

Like  the  caress  of  your  beautiful  hands. 

*  #  *  *  *  .  *  * 

Violently  winking  at  the  mist  that  blurs  my 
sight,  I  regretfully  awaken  to  the  here  and  now. 
And  is  it  possible,  I  sorrowfully  muse,  that 
all  this  glory  can  have  fled  away? — that  more 
than  twenty  long,  long  years  are  spread  be 
tween  me  and  that  happy  night?  And  is  it 
possible  that  ail  the  dear  old  faces — O,  quit 
it !  quit  it !  Gather  the  old  scraps  up  and 
wad  'em  back  into  oblivion,  where  they  be 
long ! 

Yes,    but   be   calm — be  calm !     Think    of 


THE    GILDED    ROLL.  2O3 

cheerful  things.  You  are  not  all  alone.  Bil 
ly  "s  living  yet. 

I  know — and  six  feet  high — and  sag-should 
ered — and  owns  a  tin  and  stove-store,  and 
can  't  hear  thunder  !  Billy! 

And  the  youngest  Mills  girl — she  's  alive, 
too. 

S'pose  I  do  n't  know  that?     I  married  her  ! 

And  Doc. — 

Bob  married  her.  Been  in  California  for 
more  than  fifteen  years — on  some  blasted  cat 
tle-ranch,  or  something, -and  he's  worth  a 
half  a  million  !  And  am  I  less  prosperous 
with  this  gilded  roll? 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


f  21  1914 


4  ?9t7 
FEB  22  1919 


JUL30  192Q 

MAR  11  1922 
?   • 


30wt-6,'14 


rXbVJ 

ry     X 


(Tpfr-^-1  Fr    Q  1915.- y.- 


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15,.j79 


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LIBRARY 


